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THE  LITTLE  ANGEL 


THE  BORZOI 
RUSSIAN  TRANSLATIONS 

I     TARAS  BULB  A. 

By  N.  V.  Gogol. 

II     THE  SIGNAL. 

By  W.  M.  Garshin. 

III  CHELKASH. 

By  Maxim   Gorky 

IV  THE   LITTLE  ANGEL. 

By  Leonid  Andreyev. 

V    THE  PRECIPICE. 

By  Ivan  Goncharov. 

VI     A  HERO  OF  OUR  TIME. 

By  M.  Y.  Lermontov. 

VII    THE   OLD   HOUSE. 

By  Feodor  Sologub. 

VIII     THE  LITTLE  DEMON. 

By  Feodor  Sologub. 

IX    THE  MEMOIRS  OF  A  PHYSICIAN. 
By  Vikenty  Veressayev. 

X    THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER. 

By  Leonid  Andreyev. 

Other  Volumes  in  Preparation. 


THE 
LITTLE  ANGEL 

AND     OTHER     STORIES 


TRANSLATED    FROM 
THE    RUSSIAN    OF 

L.  N.  ANDREYEV 
By  W.   H.  LOWE 


ALFRED   A.   KNOPF 
NEW  YORK  MCMXVI 


\. 


/%tV 


COPYRIGHT,  1916,  BY 
ALFRED  A.  KNOPF 


PRINTED    IN    THE    UNITED    STATES   OF    AMERICA 


PREFACE 

Leonid  Nikolaivich  Andreyev  was  born  in 
Orel  in  1871.  After  his  father's  death  he  was 
thrown  upon  his  own  resources,  but  managed  to 
study  at  both  Petrograd  and  Moscow  Universi- 
ties, graduating  in  Law  in  1897.  During  this 
period  he  endured  great  hardship — often  even 
actual  hunger — and  was  the  victim  of  deep  mel- 
ancholia. His  first  writings  were  unsuccessful; 
and,  for  a  time,  he  devoted  himself  to  painting. 
Later  he  came  into  touch  with  the  Russian  press 
as  police-court  reporter  for  a  leading  newspaper. 

Then  ''Silence"  was  published,  and  brought 
him  immediate  recognition.  This  terrible  story 
may  serve  as  an  example  of  his  method.  The 
silence  of  the  frightened  girl,  dying  with  her  se- 
cret, and  of  her  mother,  stricken,  through  shock, 
with  paralysis,  crushes  the  pride  of  the  priest 
whose  training  has  so  stiffened  his  nature  that 
he  cannot  express  or  welcome  affection.  He 
cries  for  help ;  he  entreats  them  to  show  him  pity. 
His  daughter  lies  dead;  his  wife  motionless. 
An  abstract  idea  is  the  germ  of  each  tale;  around 
it  are  woven  both  characters  and  incident — a 
process  which  is  in  marked  contrast  to  the  work 
of  his  contemporary  Maxim  Gorky  whose  peo- 

5 


6  PREFACE 

pie  with  their  actions  come  directly  from  life — 
mostly,  indeed,  from  his  own  personal  experi- 
ences. Sometimes  the  double  note  is  tragic; 
oftener,  the  abstract  idea  redeems  the  gloom  or 
horror  of  the  actual  tale,  as  in  "The  Little  Angel" 
and  "In  the  Basement,"  for,  while  the  stories  of 
Andreyev  are  tinged  with  more  than  even  the 
ordinary  tone  of  sadness  of  the  Russian  writer, 
there  seems  to  be  in  his  mind  a  balancing,  a 
search  for  some  kind  of  compensation,  as  though 
he  would  say,  "No  man  is  wholly  good  or 
wholly  bad."  Perhaps  it  is  the  weakness  of  a 
method  by  which  his  characters  become  the  pup- 
pets— however  real — illustrating  an  idea;  per- 
haps it  is  the  strength  of  the  author's  vision,  that 
makes  his  people  sometimes  morbid  and  un- 
healthy. They  are  driven  by  a  relentless  creator, 
as  in  Masefield's  "Nan,"  to  their  destiny. 
Nevertheless,  the  beauty  of  his  style,  the  clear 
imagination,  and  the  perfect  form  of  his  stories 
come  not  only  from  an  artist  but  from  a  philos- 
opher and  poet.  His  work  is  not  for  babes. 
Deep  truths  are  presented  not  more  realistically 
in  the  anomalies  and  terrors  of  life  than  in  the 
symbolism  of  his  short  stories  and,  in  its  more 
elaborate  form,  of  his  plays.  Touches  of  ten- 
derness, beauty,  and  sympathetic  insight  are  found 
on  every  page  side  by  side  with  brutality  and 
coarseness,  for  Andreyev  draws  Life  without  hid- 
ing, without  shirking.     But,  beyond  and  behind, 


PREFACE  7 

his  mind  is  working  ceaselessly,  struggling  to  co- 
ordinate the  whole. 

His  works  comprise  a  large  number  of  stories, 
including  beside  the  present  collection  ''Judas 
Iscariot,"  ''The  Red  Laugh,"  "The  Seven  Who 
Were  Hanged,"  and  some  powerful  studies  in 
madness;  and  of  plays  most  of  which  are  per- 
formed upon  the  Russian,  though  not  yet  upon 
the  English,  stage.  Among  the  latter  are  "The 
Life  of  Man,"  "Anathema,"  "The  Black  Mask- 
ers," "The  Sabine  Women,"  and  "The  Tragedy 
of  Belgium." 


CONTENTS 

Preface    S 

The  Little  Angel     11 

At  the  Roadside  Station    35 

Snapper    43 

The  Lie     56 

An  Original     71 

Petka  at  the  Bungalow    87 

Silence     104 

Laughter     126 

The  Friend     135 

In  the  Basement     147 

The  City     165 

The  Marseillaise     177 

The  Tocsin     182 

Bargamot  and  Garaska     192 

Stepping-Stones     208 

The  Spy     214 


THE  LITTLE  ANGEL 


At  times  Sashka  wished  to  give  up  what  is 
called  living:  to  cease  to  wash  every  morning 
in  cold  water,  on  which  thin  sheets  of  ice  floated 
about;  to  go  no  more  to  the  grammar  school, 
and  there  to  have  to  listen  to  every  one  scolding 
him;  no  more  to  experience  the  pain  in  the  small 
of  his  back  and  indeed  over  his  whole  body  when 
his  mother  made  him  kneel  in  the  corner  all  the 
evening.  But,  since  he  was  only  thirteen  years 
of  age,  and  did  not  know  all  the  means  by  which 
people  abandon  life  at  will,  he  continued  to  go  to 
the  grammar  school  and  to  kneel  in  the  corner, 
and  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  life  would  never  end. 
A  year  would  go  by,  and  another,  and  yet  an- 
other, and  still  he  would  be  going  to  school,  and 
be  made  to  kneel  in  the  corner.  And  since  Sash* 
ka  possessed  an  indomitable  and  bold  spirit,  he 
could  not  supinely  tolerate  evil,  and  so  found 
means  to  avenge  himself  on  life.  With  this  ob- 
ject in  view  he  would  thrash  his  companions,  be 
rude  to  the  Head,  impertinent  to  the  masters,  and 

tell  lies  all  day  long  to  his  teachers  and  to  his 

II 


12  THE  LITTLE  ANGEL 

mother — but  to  his  father  only  he  never  lied.  If 
in  a  fight  he  got  his  nose  broken,  he  would  pur- 
posely make  the  damage  worse,  and  howl,  with- 
out shedding  a  single  tear,  but  so  loudly  that  all 
w^ho  heard  him  were  fain  to  stop  their  ears  to  keep 
out  the  disagreeable  sound.  When  he  had 
howled  as  long  as  thought  advisable,  he  would 
suddenly  cease,  and,  putting  out  his  tongue,  draw 
in  his  copy-book  a  caricature  of  himself  howling 
at  an  usher  who  pressed  his  fingers  to  his  ears, 
while  the  victor  stood  trembling  with  fear.  The 
whole  copy-book  was  filled  with  caricatures,  the 
one  which  most  frequently  occurred  being  that  of 
a  short  stout  woman  beating  a  boy  as  thin  as  a 
lucifer-mi  ch  with  a  rolling  pin.  Below  in  a 
large  scrawling  hand  would  be  written  the  leg- 
end: ''Beg  my  pardon,  puppy!"  and  the  reply, 
"Won't!  blow'd  if  I  do!" 

Before  Christmas  Sashka  was  expelled  from 
school,  and  when  his  mother  attempted  to  thrash 
him,  he  bit  her  finger.  This  action  gave  him  his 
liberty.  He  left  off  washing  in  the  morning,  ran 
about  all  day  bullying  the  other  boys,  and  had 
but  one  fear,  and  that  was  hunger,  for  his  mother 
entirely  left  off  providing  for  him,  so  that  he 
came  to  depend  upon  the  pieces  of  bread  and 
potatoes  which  his  father  secreted  for  him.  On 
these  conditions  Sashka  found  existence  toler- 
able. 

One  Friday  (it  was  Christmas  Eve)  he  had 
been  playing  with  the  other  boys,  until  they  had 


THE  LITTLE  ANGEL  13 

dispersed  to  their  homes,  followed  by  the  squeak 
of  the  rusty  frozen  wicket  gate  as  it  closed  behind 
the  last  of  them.  It  was  already  growing  dark, 
and  a  grey  snowy  mist  was  travelling  up  from  the 
country,  along  a  dark  alley;  in  a  low  black  build- 
ing, which  stood  fronting  the  end  of  the  alley,  a 
lamp  was  burning  with  a  reddish,  unblinking 
light.  The  frost  had  become  more  intense,  and 
when  Sashka  reached  the  circle  of  light  cast  by 
the  lamp,  he  saw  that  fine  dry  flakes  of  snow  were 
floating  slowly  on  the  air.  It  was  high  time  to  be 
getting  home. 

''Where  have  you  been  knocking  ?^  jut  all 
night,  puppy?"  exclaimed  his  mothe:  aoubling 
her  fist,  without,  however,  striking,  ii-  sleeves 
were  turned  up,  exposing  her  fat  white  aims,  and 
on  her  forehead,  almost  devoid  of  eyebrows,  stood 
beads  of  perspiration.  As  Sashka  passed  by  her 
he  recognized  the  familiar  smell  of  vodka.  His 
mother  scratched  her  head  with  the  short  dirty 
nail  of  her  thick  fore-finger,  and  since  it  was  no 
good  scolding,  she  merely  spat,  and  cried:  "Sta- 
tisticians! that's  what  they  are!" 

Sashka  shuffled  contemptuously,  and  went  be- 
hind the  partition,  from  whence  might  be  heard 
the  heavy  breathing  of  his  father,  Ivan  Savvich, 
who  was  in  a  chronic  state  of  shivering,  and  was 
now  trying  to  warm  himself  by  sitting  on  the 
heated  bench  of  the  stove  with  his  hands  under 
him,  palms  downwards. 

"Sashka!  the  Svetchnikovs  have  invited  you  to 


14  THE  LITTLE  ANGEL 

the  Christmas  tree.  The  housemaid  came,"  he 
whispered. 

"Get  along  with  you!"  said  Sashka  with  in- 
credulity. 

'Tact!  The  old  woman  there  has  purposely 
not  told  you,  but  she  has  mended  your  jacket  all 
the  same." 

"Non — sense,"  Sashka  replied,  still  more  sur- 
prised. 

The  Svetchnikovs  were  rich  people,  who  had 
put  him  to  the  grammar  school,  and  after  his  ex- 
pulsion had  forbidden  him  their  house. 

His  father  once  more  took  his  oath  to  the  truth 
of  his  statement,  and  Sashka  became  meditative. 

''Well  then,  move,  shift  a  bit,"  he  said  to  his 
father,  as  he  leapt  upon  the  short  bench,  add- 
ing: 

"I  won't  go  to  those  devils.  I  should  prove 
jolly  well  too  much  for  them,  if  I  were  to  turn  up. 
Depraved  boy,''  drawled  Sashka  in  imitation  of 
his  patrons.  "They  are  none  too  good  them- 
selves, the  smug-faced  prigs!" 

"Oh!  Sashka,  Sashka,"  his  father  complained, 
sitting  hunched  up  with  cold,  "you'll  come  to  a 
bad  end." 

"What  about  yourself,  then?"  was  Sashka's 
rude  rejoinder.  "Better  shut  up.  Afraid  of  the 
old  woman.    Ba!  old  muff!" 

His  father  sat  on  in  silence  and  shivered.  A 
faint  light  found  its  way  through  a  broad  clink  at 
the  top,  where  the  partition  failed  to  meet  the 


THE  LITTLE  ANGEL  15 

ceiling  by  a  quarter  of  an  inch,  and  lay  in  bright 
patches  upon  his  high  forehead,  beneath  which 
the  deep  cavities  of  his  eyes  showed  black. 

In  times  gone  by  Ivan  Sawich  had  been  used 
to  drink  heavily,  and  then  his  wife  had  feared 
and  hated  him.  But  when  he  had  begun  to  de- 
velop unmistakable  signs  of  consumption,  and 
could  drink  no  longer,  she  took  to  drink  in  her 
turn,  and  gradually  accustomed  herself  to  vodka. 
Then  she  avenged  herself  for  all  she  had  suffered 
at  the  hands  of  that  tall  narrow-chested  man, 
who  used  incomprehensible  words,  had  lost  his 
place  through  disobedience  and  drunkenness,  and 
who  brought  home  with  him  just  such  long-haired, 
debauched  and  conceited  fellows  as  himself. 

In  contradistinction  to  her  husband,  the  more 
Feoktista  Petrovna  drank  the  healthier  she  be- 
came, and  the  heavier  became  her  fists.  Now  she 
said  what  she  pleased,  brought  men  and  women 
to  the  house  just  as  she  chose,  and  sang  with  them 
noisy  songs,  while  he  lay  silent  behind  the  parti- 
tion huddled  together  with  perpetual  cold,  and 
meditating  on  the  injustice  and  sorrow  of  human 
life.  To  every  one,  with  whom  she  talked,  she 
complained  that  she  had  no  such  enemies  in  the 
world  as  her  husband  and  son,  they  were  stuck- 
up  statisticians! 

For  the  space  of  an  hour  his  mother  kept  drum- 
ming into  Sashka's  ears: 

''But  I  say  you  shall  go,"  punctuating  each 
word  with  a  heavy  blow  on  the  table,  which  made 


i6  THE  LITTLE  ANGEL 

the  tumblers,  placed  on  it  after  washing,  jump 
and  rattle  again. 

''But  I  say  I  won't!"  Sashka  coolly  replied, 
dragging  down  the  corners  of  his  mouth  with  the 
will  to  show  his  teeth — a  habit  which  had  earned 
for  him  at  school  the  nickname  of  Wolfkin. 

"I'll  thrash  you,  won't  I  just!"  cried  his 
mother. 

''All  right!  thrash  away!" 

But  Feoktista  Petrovna  knew  that  she  could  no 
longer  strike  her  son  now  that  he  had  begun  to 
retaliate  by  biting,  and  that  if  she  drove  him  into 
the  street  he  would  go  off  larking,  and  sooner  get 
frost-bitten  than  go  to  the  Svetchnikovs,  therefore 
she  appealed  to  her  husband's  authority. 

"Calls  himself  a  father,  and  can't  protect  the 
mother  from  insult!" 

"Really,  Sashka,  go.  Why  are  you  so  obstin- 
ate?" he  jerked  out  from  the  bench.  "They  will 
perhaps  take  you  up  again.  They  are  kind  peo- 
ple." Sashka  only  laughed  in  an  insulting  man- 
ner. 

His  father,  long  ago,  before  Sashka  was  born, 
had  been  tutor  at  the  Svetchnikovs',  and  had  ever 
since  looked  on  them  as  the  best  people  in  the 
world.  At  that  time  he  had  held  also  an  appoint- 
ment in  the  statistical  office  of  the  Zemstvo,  and 
had  not  yet  taken  to  drink.  Eventually  he  was 
compelled  through  his  own  fault  to  marry  his 
landlady's  daughter.  From  that  time  he  severed 
his  connection  with  the  Svetchnikovs,  and  took  to 


THE  LITTLE  ANGEL  17 

drink.  Indeed,  he  let  himself  go  to  such  an  ex- 
tent, that  he  was  several  times  picked  up  drunk 
in  the  streets  and  taken  to  the  police  station.  But 
the  Svetchnikovs  did  not  cease  to  assist  him  with 
money,  and  Feoktista  Petrovna,  although  she 
hated  them,  together  with  books  and  everything 
connected  with  her  husband's  past,  still  valued 
their  acquaintance,  and  was  in  the  habit  of  boast- 
ing of  it. 

' 'Perhaps  you  might  bring  something  for  me 
too  from  the  Christmas  tree,"  continued  his  fa- 
ther. He  was  using  craft  to  induce  his  son  to  go, 
and  Sashka  knew  it,  and  despised  his  father  for 
his  weakness  and  want  of  straightforwardness; 
though  he  really  did  wish  to  bring  back  some- 
thing for  the  poor  sickly  old  man,  who  had  for  a 
long  time  been  without  even  good  tobacco. 

''All  right!"  he  blurted  out;  "give  me  my 
jacket.  Have  you  put  the  buttons  on?  No 
fear !      I  know  you  too  well ! " 


II 

The  children  had  not  yet  been  admitted  to  the 
drawing-room,  where  the  Christmas  tree  stood, 
but  remained  chattering  in  the  nursery.  Sashka, 
with  lofty  superciliousness,  stood  listening  to 
their  na'ive  talk,  and  fingering  in  his  breeches 
pocket  the  broken  cigarettes  which  he  had  man- 
aged to  abstract  from  his  host's  study.     At  this 


i8  THE  LITTLE  ANGEL 

moment  there  came  up  to  him  the  youngest  of  the 
Svetchnikovs,  Kolya,  and  stood  motionless  before 
him,  a  look  of  surprise  on  his  face,  his  toes  turned 
in,  and  a  finger  stuck  in  the  corner  of  his  pouting 
mouth.  Six  months  ago,  at  the  instance  of  his 
relatives,  he  had  given  up  this  bad  habit  of  put- 
ting his  finger  in  his  mouth,  but  he  could  not  quite 
break  himself  of  it.  He  had  blonde  locks  cut  in 
a  fringe  on  his  forehead  and  falling  in  ringlets 
on  his  shoulders,  and  blue,  wondering  eyes;  in 
fact,  he  was  just  such  a  boy  in  appearance  as 
Sashka  particularly  loved  to  bully. 

^'Are  'oo  weally  a  naughty  boy?"  he  inquired 
of  Sashka.  '^Miss  said  'oo  was.  I'm  a  dood 
boy." 

"That  you  are!"  replied  Sashka,  considering 
the  other's  short  velvet  trousers  and  great  turn- 
down collars. 

"Would  'oo  like  to  have  a  dun?  There!"  and 
he  pointed  at  him  a  little  pop-gun  with  a  cork 
tied  to  it.  The  Wolfkin  took  the  gun,  pressed 
down  the  spring,  and,  aiming  at  the  nose  of  the 
unsuspecting  Kolya,  pulled  the  trigger.  The  cork 
struck  his  nose,  and  rebounding,  hung  by  the 
string.  Kolya's  blue  eyes  opened  wider  than 
ever,  and  filled  with  tears.  Transferring  his  fin- 
ger from  his  mouth  to  his  reddening  nose  he 
blinked  his  long  eyelashes  and  whispered: 

"Bad— bad  boy!" 

A  young  lady  of  striking  appearance,  with  her 
hair  dressed  in  the  simplest  and  the  most  becom- 


THE  LITTLE  ANGEL  19 

ing  fashion,  now  entered  the  nursery.  She  was 
sister  to  the  lady  of  the  house,  the  very  one  indeed 
to  whom  Sashka's  father  had  formerly  given  les- 
sons. 

"Here's  the  boy,"  said  she,  pointing  out 
Sashka  to  the  bald-headed  man  who  accompanied 
her.    "Bow,  Sashka,  you  should  not  be  so  rude!  " 

But  Sashka  would  bow  neither  to  her,  nor  to 
her  companion  of  the  bald  head.  She  little  sus- 
pected how  much  he  knew.  But,  as  a  fact, 
Sashka  did  know  that  his  miserable  father  had 
loved  her,  and  that  she  had  married  another;  and, 
though  this  had  taken  place  subsequent  to  his 
father's  marriage,  Sashka  could  not  bring  him- 
self to  forgive  what  seemed  to  him  like  treachery. 

"Takes  after  his  father!"  sighed  Sofia  Dmi- 
trievna.  "Could  not  you,  Plutov  Michailovich, 
do  something  for  him?  My  husband  says  that  a 
commercial  school  would  suit  him  better  than  the 
grammar  school.  Sashka,  would  you  like  to  go 
to  a  technical  school?" 

"No!"  curtly  replied  Sashka,  who  had  caught 
the  offensive  w^ord  "husband." 

"Do  you  want  to  be  a  shepherd,  then?"  asked 
the  gentleman. 

"Not  likely!"  said  Sashka,  in  an  offended 
tone. 

"What  then?" 

Now  Sashka  did  not  know  what  he  would  like 
to  be,  but  upon  reflection  replied:  "Well,  it's  all 
the  same  to  me,  even  a  shepherd,  if  you  like." 


20  THE  LITTLE  ANGEL 

The  bald-headed  gentleman  regarded  the 
strange  boy  with  a  look  of  perplexity.  When  his 
eyes  had  travelled  up  from  his  patched  boots  to 
his  face,  Sashka  put  out  his  tongue  and  quickly 
drew  it  back  again,  so  that  Sofia  Dmitrievna  did 
not  notice  anything,  but  the  old  gentleman  showed 
an  amount  of  irascibility  that  she  could  not  under- 
stand. 

"I  should  not  mind  going  to  a  commercial 
school,"  bashfully  suggested  Sashka. 

The  lady  was  overjoyed  at  Sashka's  decision, 
and  meditated  with  a  sigh  on  the  beneficial  influ- 
ence exercised  by  an  old  love. 

'T  don't  know  whether  there  will  be  a  va- 
cancy," dryly  remarked  the  old  man  avoiding 
looking  at  Sashka,  and  smoothing  down  the  ridge 
of  hair  which  stuck  up  on  the  back  of  his  head. 
"However,  we  shall  see." 

Meanwhile  the  children  were  becoming  noisy, 
and  in  a  great  state  of  excitement  were  waiting  im- 
patiently for  the  Christmas  tree. 

The  excellent  practice  with  the  pop-gun  made 
in  the  hands  of  a  boy,  who  commanded  respect 
both  for  his  stature  and  for  his  reputation  for 
naughtiness,  found  imitators,  and  many  a  little 
button  of  a  nose  was  made  red.  The  tiny  maids, 
holding  their  sides,  bent  almost  double  with 
laughter,  as  their  little  cavaliers  with  manly  con- 
tempt of  fear  and  pain,  but  all  the  same  wrin- 
kling up  their  faces  in  suspense,  received  the  im- 
pact of  the  cork. 


THE  LITTLE  ANGEL  21 

At  length  the  doors  were  opened,  and  a  voice 
said:  ''Come  in,  children;  gently,  not  so  fast!" 
Opening  their  little  eyes  wide,  and  holding  their 
breath  in  anticipation,  the  children  filed  into  the 
brightly  illumined  drawing-room  in  orderly  pairs, 
and  quietly  walked  round  the  glittering  tree.  It 
cast  a  strong,  shadowless  light  on  their  eager 
faces,  with  rounded  eyes  and  mouths.  For  a  min- 
ute there  reigned  the  silence  of  profound  enchant- 
ment, which  all  at  once  broke  out  into  a  chorus  of 
delighted  exclamation.  One  of  the  little  girls,  un- 
able to  restrain  her  delight,  kept  dancing  up  and 
down  in  the  same  place,  her  little  tress  braided 
with  blue  ribbon  beating  meanwhile  rhythmi- 
cally against  her  shoulders.  Sashka  remained 
morose  and  gloomy — something  evil  was  working 
in  his  little  wounded  breast.  The  tree  blinded 
him  w^ith  its  red,  shriekingly  insolent  glitter  of 
countless  candles.  It  was  foreign,  hostile  to  him, 
even  as  the  crowd  of  smart,  pretty  children  which 
surrounded  it.  He  would  have  liked  to  give  it  a 
shove,  and  topple  it  over  on  their  shining  heads. 
It  seemed  as  though  some  iron  hand  were  grip- 
ping his  heart,  and  wringing  out  of  it  every  drop 
of  blood.  He  crept  behind  the  piano,  and  sat 
down  there  in  a  corner  unconsciously  crumpling 
to  pieces  in  his  pocket  the  last  of  the  cigarettes, 
and  thinking  that  though  he  had  a  father  and 
mother  and  a  home,  it  came  to  the  same  thing  as 
if  he  had  none,  and  nowhere  to  go  to.  He  tried 
to  recall  to  his  imagination  his  little  penknife, 


22  THE  LITTLE  ANGEL 

which  he  had  acquired  by  a  swap  not  long  ago, 
and  was  very  fond  of;  but  his  knife  all  at  once 
seemed  to  him  a  very  poor  affair  with  its  ground- 
down  blade  and  only  half  of  a  yellow  haft.  To- 
morrow he  would  smash  it  up,  and  then  he  would 
have  nothing  left  at  all ! 

But  suddenly  Sashka's  narrow  eyes  gleamed 
with  astonishment,  and  his  face  in  a  moment  re- 
sumed its  ordinary  expression  of  audacity  and 
self-confidence.  On  the  side  of  the  tree  turned 
towards  him — which  was  the  back  of  it,  and  less 
brightly  illumined  than  the  other  side — he  discov- 
ered something  such  as  had  never  come  within  the 
circle  of  his  existence,  and  without  which  all  his 
surroundings  appeared  as  empty  as  though  peo- 
pled by  persons  without  life.  It  was  a  little  angel 
in  wax  carelessly  hung  in  the  thickest  of  the  dark 
boughs,  and  looking  as  if  it  were  floating  in  the 
air.  His  transparent  dragon-fly  wings  trembled 
in  the  light,  and  he  seemed  altogether  alive  and 
ready  to  fly  away.  The  rosy  fingers  of  his  ex- 
quisitely formed  hands  were  stretched  upwards, 
and  from  his  head  there  floated  just  such  locks 
as  Kolya's.  But  there  was  something  here  that 
was  wanting  in  Kolya's  face,  and  in  all  other 
faces  and  things.  The  face  of  the  little  angel 
did  not  shine  with  joy,  nor  was  it  clouded  by  grief; 
but  there  lay  on  it  the  impress  of  another  feeling, 
not  to  be  explained  in  words,  nor  defined  by 
thought,  but  to  be  attained  only  by  the  sympathy 
of  a  kindred  feeling.     Sashka  was  not  conscious 


THE  LITTLE  ANGEL  23 

of  the  force  of  the  mysterious  influence  which  at- 
tracted him  towards  the  little  angel,  but  he  felt 
that  he  had  known  him  all  his  life,  and  had  al- 
ways loved  him,  loved  him  more  than  his  pen- 
knife, more  than  his  father,  more  than  anything 
else.  Filled  with  doubt,  alarm,  and  a  delight 
which  he  could  not  comprehend,  Sashka  clasped 
his  hands  to  his  bosom  and  whispered: 

''Dear— dear  little  angel!" 

The  more  intently  he  looked  the  more  fraught 
with  significance  the  expression  of  the  little  an- 
gel's face  became.  He  was  so  infinitely  far  off, 
so  unlike  everything  which  surrounded  him  there. 
The  other  toys  seemed  to  take  a  pride  in  hanging 
there  pretty,  and  decked  out,  upon  the  glittering 
tree,  but  he  was  pensive,  and  fearing  the  intrusive 
light  purposely  hid  himself  in  the  dark  greenery, 
so  that  none  might  see  him.  It  would  be  a  mad 
cruelty  to  touch  his  dainty  little  wings. 

''Dear — dear!"  whispered  Sashka. 

His  head  became  feverish.  He  clasped  his 
hands  behind  his  back,  and  in  full  readiness  to 
fight  to  the  death  to  win  the  little  angel,  he  walked 
to  and  fro  with  cautious,  stealthy  steps.  He 
avoided  looking  at  the  little  angel,  lest  he  should 
direct  the  attention  of  others  towards  him,  but  he 
felt  that  he  was  still  there,  and  had  not  flown 
away. 

Now  the  hostess  appeared  in  the  doorway,  a 
tall,  stately  lady  with  a  bright  aureole  of  grey 
hair  dressed  high  upon  her  head.     The  children 


24  THE  LITTLE  ANGEL 

trooped  round  her  with  expressions  of  delight, 
and  the  little  girl — the  same  that  had  danced 
about  in  her  place — hung  wearily  on  her  hand, 
blinking  heavily  with  sleepy  eyes. 

As  Sashka  approached  her  he  seemed  almost 
choking  with  emotion. 

''Auntie — auntie!"^  said  he,  trying  to  speak 
caressingly,  but  his  voice  sounded  harsher  than 
ever.    ''Auntie,  dear! " 

She  did  not  hear  him,  so  he  tugged  impatiently 
at  her  dress. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?  Why  are  you 
pulling  my  dress?"  said  the  grey-haired  lady  in 
surprise.     "It's  rude." 

"Auntie — auntie,  do  give  me  one  thing  from 
the  tree;  give  me  the  little  angel." 

"Impossible,"  replied  the  lady  in  a  tone  of  in- 
difference. "We  are  going  to  keep  the  tree  deco- 
rated till  the  New  Year.  But  you  are  no  longer 
a  child;  you  should  call  me  by  name — ^Maria 
Dmitrievna." 

Sashka,  feeling  as  if  he  were  falling  down  a 
precipice,  grasped  the  last  means  of  saving  him- 
self. 

"I  am  sorry  I  have  been  naughty.  I'll  be  more 
industrious  for  the  future,"  he  blurted  out.  But 
this  formula,  which  had  always  paid  with  his 
masters,  made  no  impression  upon  the  lady  of  the 
grey  hair. 

1  This  is,  of  course,  only  a  child's  way  of  addressing  an  elder. — 
Tr. 


THE  LITTLE  ANGEL  25 

''A  good  thing,  too,  my  friend,"  she  said,  as 
unconcernedly  as  before. 

"Give  me  the  little  angel,"  demanded  Sashka, 
gruffly. 

"But  it's  impossible.  Can't  you  understand 
that?" 

But  Sashka  did  not  understand,  and  when  the 
lady  turned  to  go  out  of  the  room  he  followed  her, 
his  gaze  fixed  without  conscious  thought  upon 
her  black  silk  dress.  In  his  surging  brain  there 
glimmered  a  recollection  of  how  one  of  the  boys 
in  his  class  had  asked  the  master  to  mark  him 
3,^  and  when  the  master  refused  he  had  knelt 
down  before  him,  and  putting  his  hands  together 
as  in  prayer,  had  begun  to  cry.  The  master  was 
angry,  but  gave  him  3  all  the  same.  At  the  time 
Sashka  had  immortalised  this  episode  in  a  carica- 
ture, but  now  his  only  means  left  was  to  follow 
the  boy's  example.  Accordingly  he  plucked  at 
the  lady's  dress  again,  and  when  she  turned 
round,  dropped  with  a  bang  on  to  his  knees,  and 
folded  his  hands  as  described  above.  But  he 
could  not  squeeze  out  a  single  tear! 

"Are  you  out  of  your  mind?"  exclaimed  the 
grey-haired  lady,  casting  a  searching  look  round 
the  room ;  but  luckily  no  one  was  present. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you?" 

Kneeling  there  with  clasped  hands,  Sashka 
looked  at  her  with  dislike,  and  rudely  repeated: 

"Give  me  the  little  angel." 

1  In  Russian  schools  5  is  the  maximum  mark. — Tr. 


26  THE  LITTLE  ANGEL 

His  eyes,  fixed  intently  on  the  lady  to  catch  the 
first  word  she  should  utter,  were  anything  but 
good  to  look  at,  and  the  hostess  answered  hur- 
riedly : 

''Well,  then,  I'll  give  it  to  you.  Ah!  what  a 
stupid  you  are!  I  will  give  you  what  you  want, 
but  why  could  you  not  wait  till  the  New  Year?" 

''Stand  up!  And  never,"  she  added  in  a  di- 
dactic tone,  "never  kneel  to  any  one:  it  is  humil- 
iating.    Kneel  before  God  alone." 

"Talk  away!"  thought  Sashka,  trying  to  get 
in  front  of  her,  and  merely  succeeding  in  tread- 
ing on  her  dress. 

When  she  had  taken  the  toy  from  the  tree, 
Sashka  devoured  her  with  his  eyes,  but  stretched 
out  his  hands  for  it  with  a  painful  pucker  of  the 
nose.  It  seemed  to  him  that  the  tall  lady  would 
break  the  little  angel. 

"Beautiful  thing!"  said  the  lady,  who  was 
sorry  to  part  with  such  a  dainty  and  presumably 
expensive  toy.  "Who  can  have  hung  it  there? 
Well,  what  do  you  want  with  such  a  thing?  Are 
you  not  too  big  to  know  what  to  do  with  it? 
Look,  there  are  some  picture-books.  But  this  I 
promised  to  give  to  Kolya ;  he  begged  so  earnestly 
for  it."     But  this  was  not  the  truth. 

Sashka's  agony  became  unbearable.  He 
clenched  his  teeth  convulsively,  and  seemed  al- 
most to  grind  them.  The  lady  of  the  grey  hair 
feared  nothing  so  much  as  a  scene,  so  she  slowly 
held  out  the  little  angel  to  Sashka. 


THE  LITTLE  ANGEL  27 

''There  now,  take  it!"  she  said  in  a  displeased 
tone;  "what  a  persistent  boy  you  are!" 

Sashka's  hands  as  they  seized  the  little  angel 
seemed  like  tentacles,  and  were  tense  as  steel 
springs,  but  withal  so  soft  and  careful  that  the 
little  angel  might  have  imagined  himself  to  be  fly- 
ing in  the  air. 

"A-h-h!"  escaped  in  a  long  diminuendo  sigh 
from  Sashka's  breast,  while  in  his  eyes  glistened 
two  little  tear-drops,  which  stood  still  there  as 
though  unused  to  the  light.  Slowly  drawing  the 
little  angel  to  his  bosom,  he  kept  his  shining  eyes 
on  the  hostess,  with  a  quiet,  tender  smile  which 
died  away  in  a  feeling  of  unearthly  bliss.  It 
seemed,  when  the  dainty  wings  of  the  little  angel 
touched  Sashka's  sunken  breast,  as  if  he  expe- 
rienced something  so  blissful,  so  bright,  the  like  of 
which  had  never  before  been  experienced  in  this 
sorrowful,  sinful,  suffering  world. 

"A-h-h!"  sighed  he  once  more  as  the  little  an- 
gel's wings  touched  him.  And  at  the  shining  of 
his  face  the  absurdly  decorated  and  insolently 
growing  tree  seemed  to  be  extinguished,  and  the 
grey-haired,  portly  dame  smiled  with  gladness, 
and  the  parchment-like  face  of  the  bald-headed 
gentleman  twitched,  and  the  children  fell  into  a 
vivid  silence  as  though  touched  by  a  breath  of  hu- 
man happiness. 

For  one  short  moment  all  observed  a  mysteri- 
ous likeness  between  the  awkward  boy  who  had 
outgrown  his  clothes,  and  the  lineaments  of  the 


28  THE  LITTLE  ANGEL 

little  angel,  which  had  been  spiritualised  by  the 
hand  of  an  unknown  artist. 

But  the  next  moment  the  picture  was  entirely 
changed.  Crouching  like  a  panther  preparing  to 
spring,  Sashka  surveyed  the  surrounding  com- 
pany, on  the  look-out  for  some  one  who  should 
dare  wrest  his  little  angel  from  him. 

"I'm  going  home,"  he  said  in  a  dull  voice,  hav- 
ing in  view  a  way  of  escape  through  the  crowd, 
''home  to  Father." 

Ill 

His  mother  was  asleep  worn  out  with  a  whole 
day's  work  and  vodka-drinking.  In  the  little 
room  behind  the  partition  there  stood  a  small 
cooking-lamp  burning  on  the  table.  Its  feeble 
yellow  light,  with  difficulty  penetrating  the  sooty 
glass,  threw  a  strange  shadow  over  the  faces  of 
Sashka  and  his  father. 

"Is  it  not  pretty?"  asked  Sashka  in  a  whisper, 
holding  the  little  angel  at  a  distance  from  his 
father,  so  as  not  to  allow  him  to  touch  it. 

"Yes,  there's  something  most  remarkable  about 
him,"  whispered  the  father,  gazing  thoughtfully 
at  the  toy.  And  his  face  expressed  the  same  con- 
centrated attention  and  delight,  as  did  Sashka's. 

"Look,  he  is  going  to  fly." 

"I  see  it  too,"  replied  Sashka  in  an  ecstasy. 
"Think  I'm  blind?  But  look  at  his  little  wings! 
Ah!  don't  touch!" 


THE  LITTLE  ANGEL  29 

The  father  withdrew  his  hand,  and  with  trou- 
bled eyes  studied  the  details  of  the  little  angel, 
while  Sashka  whispered  with  the  air  of  a  peda- 
gogue: 

"Father,  what  a  bad  habit  you  have  of  touch- 
ing everything!      You  might  break  it." 

There  fell  upon  the  wall  the  shadows  of  two 
grotesque,  motionless  heads  bending  towards  one 
another,  one  big  and  shaggy,  the  other  small  and 
round. 

Within  the  big  head  strange  torturing  thoughts, 
though  at  the  same  time  full  of  delight,  were  seeth- 
ing. His  eyes  unblinkingly  regarded  the  little 
angel,  and  under  his  steadfast  gaze  it  seemed  to 
grow  larger  and  brighter,  and  its  wings  to  trem- 
ble with  a  noiseless  trepidation,  and  all  the  sur- 
roundings— the  timber-built,  soot-stained  wall, 
the  dirty  table,  Sashka — everything  became  fused 
into  one  level  grey  mass  without  light  or  shade. 
It  seemed  to  the  broken  man  that  he  heard  a  pity- 
ing voice  from  the  world  of  wonders,  wherein 
once  he  had  dwelt,  and  whence  he  had  been  cast 
out  forever.  There  they  knew  nothing  of  dirt, 
of  weary  quarrelling,  of  the  blindly-cruel  strife 
of  egotism,  there  they  knew  nothing  of  the  tor- 
tures of  a  man  arrested  in  the  streets  with  callous 
laughter,  and  beaten  by  the  rough  hand  of  the 
night-watchman.  There  everything  is  pure,  joy- 
ful, bright.  And  all  this  purity  found  an  asylum 
in  the  soul  of  her  whom  he  loved  more  than  life, 
and  had  lost — when  he  had  kept  his  hold  upon 


30  THE  LITTLE  ANGEL 

his  own  useless  life.  With  the  smell  of  wax, 
which  emanated  from  the  toy,  was  mingled  a  sub- 
tle aroma,  and  it  seemed  to  the  broken  man  that 
her  dear  fingers  touched  the  angel,  those  fingers 
which  he  would  fain  have  caressed  in  one  long 
kiss,  till  death  should  close  his  lips  forever. 
This  was  why  the  little  toy  was  so  beautiful,  this 
was  why  there  was  in  it  something  specially  at- 
tractive, which  defied  description.  The  little  an- 
gel had  descended  from  that  heaven  which  her 
soul  was  to  him,  and  had  brought  a  ray  of  light 
into  the  damp  room,  steeped  in  sulphurous  fumes, 
and  to  the  dark  soul  of  the  man  from  whom  had 
been  taken  all:  love,  and  happiness,  and  life. 

On  a  level  with  the  eyes  of  the  man,  who  had 
lived  his  life,  sparkled  the  eyes  of  the  boy,  who 
was  beginning  his  life,  and  embraced  the  little 
angel  in  their  caress.  For  them  present  and  fu- 
ture had  disappeared:  the  ever-sorrowful,  piteous 
father,  the  rough,  unendurable  mother,  the  black 
darkness  of  insults,  of  cruelty,  of  humiliations, 
and  of  spiteful  grief.  The  thoughts  of  Sashka 
were  formless,  nebulous,  but  all  the  more  deeply 
for  that  did  they  move  his  agitated  soul.  Every- 
thing that  is  good  and  bright  in  the  w^orld,  all  pro- 
found grief,  and  the  hope  of  a  soul  that  sighs  for 
God — the  little  angel  absorbed  them  all  into  him- 
self, and  that  was  why  he  glowed  with  such  a  soft 
divine  radiance,  that  was  why  his  little  dragon- 
fly wings  trembled  with  a  noiseless  trepidation. 

The  father  and  son  did  not  look  at  one  another: 


THE  LITTLE  ANGEL  31 

their  sick  hearts  grieved,  wept,  and  rejoiced  apart. 
But  there  was  a  something  in  their  thoughts  which 
fused  their  hearts  in  one,  and  annihilated  that 
bottomless  abyss  which  separates  man  from  man 
and  makes  him  so  lonely,  unhappy,  and  weak. 
The  father  with  an  unconscious  motion  put  his 
arm  around  the  neck  of  his  son,  and  the  son's 
head  rested  equally  without  conscious  volition 
upon  his  father's  consumptive  chest. 

''She  it  was  who  gave  it  to  thee,  was  it  not?" 
whispered  the  father,  without  taking  his  eyes  off 
the  little  angel. 

At  another  time  Sashka  would  have  replied 
with  a  rude  negation,  but  now  the  only  reply  pos- 
sible resounded  of  itself  within  his  soul,  and  he 
calmly  pronounced  the  pious  fraud:  ''Who  else? 
of  course  she  did." 

The  father  made  no  reply,  and  Sashka  relapsed 
into  silence. 

Something  grated  in  the  adjoining  room,  then 
clicked,  and  then  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and 
then  noisily  and  hurriedly  the  clock  struck  ''One, 
two,  three." 

"Sashka,  do  you  ever  dream?"  asked  the  father 
in  a  meditative  tone. 

"No!  Oh,  yes,"  he  admitted,  "once  I  had 
one,  in  which  I  fell  down  from  the  roof.  We 
were  climbing  after  the  pigeons,  and  I  fell  down." 

"But  I  dream  always.  Strange  things  are 
dreams.  One  sees  the  whole  past,  one  loves  and 
suffers  as  though  it  were  reality." 


32  THE  LITTLE  ANGEL 

Again  he  was  silent,  and  Sashka  felt  his  arm 
tremble  as  it  lay  upon  his  neck.  The  trembling 
and  pressure  of  his  father's  arm  became  stronger 
and  stronger,  and  the  sensitive  silence  of  the  night 
was  all  at  once  broken  by  the  pitiful  sobbing 
sound  of  suppressed  weeping.  Sashka  sternly 
puckered  his  brow,  and  cautiously — so  as  not  to 
disturb  the  heavy  trembling  arm — wiped  away  a 
tear  from  his  eyes.  So  strange  was  it  to  see  a  big 
old  man  crying. 

'^Ah!  Sashka,  Sashka,"  sobbed  the  father, 
^'what  is  the  meaning  of  everything?" 

"Why,  what's  the  matter?"  sternly  whispered 
Sashka.     "You're  crying  just  like  a  little  boy." 

"Well,  I  won't,  then,"  said  the  father  vv^ith  a 
piteous  smile  of  excuse.     "What's  the  good?" 

Feoktista  Petrovna  turned  on  her  bed.  She 
sighed,  cleared  her  throat,  and  mumbled  incoher- 
ent sounds  in  a  loud  and  strangely  persistent  man- 
ner. 

It  was  time  to  go  to  bed.  But  before  doing  so 
the  little  angel  must  be  disposed  of  for  the  night. 
He  could  not  be  left  on  the  floor,  so  he  was  hung 
up  by  his  string,  which  was  fastened  to  the  flue 
of  the  stove.  There  it  stood  out  accurately  de- 
lineated against  the  white  Dutch-tiles.  And  so 
they  could  both  see  him,  Sashka  and  his  father. 

Hurriedly  throwing  into  a  corner  the  various 
rags  on  which  he  was  in  the  habit  of  sleeping, 
Sashka  lay  down  on  his  back,  in  order  as  quickly 
as  possible  to  look  again  at  the  little  angel. 


THE  LITTLE  ANGEL  33 

"Why  don't  you  undress?"  asked  his  father  as 
he  shivered  and  wrapped  himself  up  in  his  tat- 
tered blanket,  and  arranged  his  clothes,  which  he 
had  thrown  over  his  feet. 

"What's  the  good?  I  shall  soon  be  up 
again." 

Sashka  wished  to  add  that  he  did  not  care  to  go 
to  sleep  at  all,  but  he  had  no  time  to  do  so,  since 
he  fell  to  sleep  as  suddenly  as  though  he  had  sunk 
to  the  bottom  of  a  deep  swift  river. 

His  father  presently  fell  asleep  also.  And 
gentle  sleep  and  restfulness  lay  upon  the  weary 
face  of  the  man  who  had  lived  his  life,  and  upon 
the  brave  face  of  the  little  man  who  was  just  be- 
ginning his  life. 

But  the  little  angel  hanging  by  the  hot  stove 
began  to  melt.  The  lamp,  which  had  been  left 
burning  at  the  entreaty  of  Sashka,  filled  the  room 
with  the  smell  of  kerosene,  and  through  its 
smoked  glass  threw  a  melancholy  light  upon  a 
scene  of  gradual  dissolution.  The  little  angel 
seemed  to  stir.  Over  his  rosy  fingers  there  rolled 
thick  drops  which  fell  upon  the  bench.  To  the 
smell  of  kerosene  was  added  the  stifling  scent  of 
melting  wax.  The  little  angel  gave  a  tremble  as 
though  on  the  point  of  flight,  and — fell  with  a 
soft  thud  upon  the  hot  flags. 

An  inquisitive  cockroach  singed  its  wings  as  it 
ran  round  the  formless  lump  of  melted  wax, 
climbed  up  the  dragon-fly  wings,  and  twitching 
its  feelers  went  on  its  way. 


34  THE  LITTLE  ANGEL 

Through  the  curtained  window  the  grey-blue 
light  of  coming  day  crept  in,  and  the  frozen  wa- 
ter-carrier was  already  making  a  noise  in  the 
courtyard  with  his  iron  scoop. 


AT  THE  ROADSIDE  STATION 

It  was  early  spring  when  I  went  to  the  bunga- 
low. On  the  road  still  lay  last  year's  darkened 
leaves.  I  was  unaccompanied;  and  alone  I  wan- 
dered through  the  still  empty  bungalow,  the  win- 
dows of  which  reflected  the  April  sun.  I  mounted 
the  broad  bright  terraces,  and  wondered  who 
would  live  here  under  the  green  canopy  of  birch 
and  oak.  And  when  I  closed  my  eyes  I  seemed 
to  hear  quick,  cheerful  footsteps,  youthful  song, 
and  the  ringing  sound  of  women's  laughter. 

I  used  often  to  go  to  the  station  to  meet  the  pas- 
senger trains.  I  was  not  expecting  any  one,  for 
there  was  no  one  to  come  and  see  me;  but  I  am 
fond  of  those  iron  giants,  when  they  rush  past, 
rolling  their  shoulders,  tearing  along  the  rails 
with  colossal  momentum,  and  carrying  some- 
whither persons  unknown  to  me,  but  still  my  fel- 
low-creatures. They  seem  to  me  alive  and  un- 
canny. In  their  speed  I  recognize  the  immensity 
of  the  world  and  the  might  of  man,  and  when 
they  whistle  with  such  abandon  and  in  so  im- 
perious a  manner,  I  think  how  they  are  whistling 
in  the  same  way  in  America,  and  Asia,  maybe  in 
torrid  Africa. 

The  station  was  a  small  one,  with  two  short 

35 


36      AT  THE  ROADSIDE  STATION 

sidings,  and  when  the  passenger  train  had  left  it 
became  still  and  deserted.  The  forest  and  the 
streaming  sunshine  dominated  the  little  low  plat- 
form and  the  desolate  track,  and  blended  the 
rails  in  silence  and  light.  On  one  of  the  sidings 
under  an  empty  sleeping-car  fowls  wandered 
about,  swarming  round  the  iron  wheels,  and  one 
could  hardly  believe,  as  one  watched  their  peace- 
ful, fussy  activity,  that  it  would  be  much  the 
same  in  America,  in  Asia,  or  in  torrid  Africa. 
...  In  a  week  I  became  acquainted  with  all 
the  inhabitants  of  this  little  corner,  and  saluted 
as  acquaintances  the  watchmen  in  their  blue 
blouses,  and  the  silent  pointsmen  with  their  dull 
countenances  and  their  brass  horns,  which  glit- 
tered in  the  sun. 

Every  day  I  saw  at  the  station  a  gendarme. 
He  was  a  healthy,  strong  fellow,  as  are  they  all, 
with  broad  back,  in  a  tightly  stretched  blue  uni- 
form, with  enormous  arms  and  a  youthful  coun- 
tenance, upon  which,  from  behind  a  severe  official 
dignity,  there  still  looked  out  the  blue-eyed 
naivete  of  the  country.  At  first  he  used  to  scan 
me  all  over  with  a  gloomy  suspicion,  and  put  on 
a  look  of  unapproachable  severity  without  a  touch 
of  indulgence,  and  when  he  passed  me  would 
clank  his  spurs  in  a  peculiarly  sharp  and  eloquent 
manner.  But  he  soon  became  used  to  me,  just  as 
he  had  become  used  to  the  pillars  which  supported 
the  roof  of  the  platform,  to  the  desolate  track,  and 
to  the  discarded  sleeping-car  under  which  the 


AT  THE  ROADSIDE  STATION       37 

fowls  kept  running  about.  In  such  quiet  corners 
a  habit  is  soon  formed.  And  when  he  left  off  ob- 
serving me,  I  perceived  that  this  man  was  bored — 
bored  as  no  one  else  in  the  world.  He  was  bored 
with  the  wearisome  station,  bored  by  the  absence 
of  thoughts,  bored  by  his  strength-devouring  in- 
activity, bored  by  the  exclusiveness  of  his  posi- 
tion, somewhere  in  the  void  between  the  station- 
master,  who  was  unapproachable  to  him,  and  the 
lower  employes  to  whom  he  was  himself  unap- 
proachable. His  soul  lived  on  breaches  of  the 
peace,  but  at  this  tiny  station  no  one  ever  com- 
mitted a  breach  of  the  peace,  and  every  time  the 
passenger  train  departed  without  any  adventure 
there  passed  over  the  face  of  the  gendarme  the  ex- 
pression of  annoyance  and  vexation  of  a  person 
who  has  been  deprived  of  his  due.  For  some 
minutes  he  would  stand  still  in  indecision,  and 
then  with  listless  gait  walk  to  the  other  end  of  the 
platform  without  any  aim  or  object.  On  his  way 
he  might  stop  for  a  second  in  front  of  some  peas- 
ant woman  who  had  been  waiting  for  the  train — 
but  she  was  only  a  peasant  woman  like  any  other 
— and  so  knitting  his  brows  the  gendarme  would 
pass  on  his  way. 

Then  he  would  sit  down  stout  and  listless,  as 
though  he  had  been  boiled  soft,  and  felt  how  soft 
and  flabby  were  his  useless  arms  under  the  cloth 
of  his  uniform,  and  how  his  powerful  body,  cre- 
ated for  work,  grew  weary  with  the  torturing  fa- 
tigue of  doing  nothing.     We  are  bored  only  in 


38      AT  THE  ROADSIDE  STATION 

the  head,  but  he  was  bored  in  every  part  of  him, 
from  head  to  foot:  his  cap,  cocked  on  one  side 
with  youthful  lack  of  purpose,  was  bored,  his 
spurs  were  bored  and  tinkled  inharmoniously  and 
irregularly  as  though  muffled.  Then  he  began 
to  yawn.  How  he  yawned!  his  mouth  became 
contorted,  expanded  from  ear  to  ear,  grew  broader 
and  broader,  till  it  swallowed  up  his  whole  face, 
it  seemed  that  in  another  second,  through  the  ever 
enlarging  aperture,  you  would  be  able  to  see  down 
his  throat,  choke-full  of  greasy  soup.  How  he 
yawned !  He  went  away  in  a  hurry,  but  for  long 
that  awful  yawn  seemed  to  put  my  jaw-bone  out 
of  joint,  and  the  trees  were  broken  and  bob- 
bing about  to  my  tear-filled  eyes. 

Once  from  the  mail  train  they  took  a  passenger 
travelling  without  a  ticket,  and  this  was  a  very 
festival  for  the  bored  gendarme.  He  drew  him- 
self up,  his  spurs  jingled  with  precision  and  aus- 
terity, his  face  became  concentrated  and  angry; 
but  his  happiness  was  but  short-lived.  The  pas- 
senger paid  his  fare,  and  with  a  hasty  oath  got 
back  into  the  car,  and  in  the  rear  the  metal  rowels 
of  the  gendarme's  spurs  gave  a  disconcerted  and 
piteous  rattle,  as  his  enervated  body  swayed  feebly 
over  them. 

And  at  times  when  he  yawned  he  became  to  me 
something  terrible. 

For  some  days  workmen  had  been  busy  about 
the  station  clearing  the  site,  and  when  I  returned 
from  town  after  a  stay  of  a  couple  of  days,  the 


AT  THE  ROADSIDE  STATION       39 

masons  were  laying  the  third  row  of  bricks;  a 
brand-new  building  was  arising.  These  masons 
were  numerous,  and  worked  quickly  and  skil- 
fully; and  it  was  a  strange  pleasure  to  watch  the 
straight,  even  wall  springing  up  out  of  the 
ground.  When  they  had  covered  one  row  with 
mortar  they  laid  on  a  second  row,  adjusting  the 
bricks  according  to  their  dimensions,  laying  them 
now  on  the  broad  side,  now  on  the  narrow,  and 
cutting  off  the  corners  to  make  them  fit.  They 
worked  meditatively,  and  though  the  course  of 
their  meditation  was  evident  enough,  and  their 
problem  clear,  still  it  gave  an  additional  charm 
and  interest  to  the  work.  I  was  looking  at  them 
with  enjoyment  when  an  authoritative  voice  at 
my  elbow  shouted: 

^'Look  here,  you.  What's  your  name!  Why 
don't  you  put  this  right?" 

It  was  the  voice  of  the  gendarme,  squeezing 
himself  through  the  iron  railings,  which  sepa- 
rated the  asphalt  platform  from  the  workmen ;  he 
was  pointing  to  a  certain  brick  and  insisting: 
^'You  with  the  beard!  lay  that  brick  properly. 
Don't  you  see,  it's  a  half-brick?" 

The  mason  with  the  beard,  which  was  in  places 
whitened  with  lime,  turned  round  in  silence — the 
gendarme's  face  was  severe  and  imposing — ^in 
silence  he  followed  the  direction  of  the  gen- 
darme's finger,  took  up  the  brick,  trimmed  it,  and 
in  silence  put  it  back  in  its  place.  The  gendarme 
gave  me  a  severe  look  and  went  away ;  but  the  se- 


40      AT  THE  ROADSIDE  STATION 

ductive  interest  in  the  work  was  stronger  than  his 
sense  of  dignity.  When  he  had  made  a  couple 
of  turns  on  the  platform,  he  again  came  to  a 
standstill  in  front  of  the  workmen,  adopting  a 
somewhat  careless  and  contemptuous  pose.  But 
his  face  no  longer  showed  signs  of  boredom. 

I  went  to  the  wood,  and  when  I  was  returning 
through  the  station  it  was  one  o'clock,  the  work- 
men were  resting,  and  the  place  was  empty  as 
usual.  But  some  one  was  busying  himself  about 
the  unfinished  wall;  it  was  the  gendarme.  He 
was  taking  up  bricks,  and  finishing  the  fifth  row. 
I  could  only  catch  a  sight  of  his  broad,  tightly 
stretched  back,  but  it  was  expressive  of  intent 
thought,  and  indecision.  Evidently  the  work 
was  more  complicated  than  he  had  imagined. 
His  unaccustomed  eye  was  playing  him  false;  he 
stepped  back,  shook  his  head,  stooped  for  a  fresh 
brick,  striking  the  ground  with  his  sabre  as  he 
bent  down.  Once  he  raised  his  finger,  in  the 
classic  gesture  of  one  who  has  discovered  the 
solution  of  a  problem,  such  as  might  have  been 
used  by  Archimedes  himself,  and  his  back  once 
more  assumed  the  erect  attitude  of  greater  self- 
confidence  and  certainty.  But  immediately  it 
became  once  more  doubled  up  in  the  conscious- 
ness of  the  undignified  nature  of  the  work  under- 
taken. There  was  in  his  whole,  full-grown  fig- 
ure something  secretive  as  with  children,  when 
they  are  afraid  they  will  be  found  out. 


AT  THE  ROADSIDE  STATION       41 

I  carelessly  struck  a  match  to  light  a  cigarette, 
and  the  gendarme  turned  round  startled.  For  a 
moment  he  looked  at  me  in  confusion,  and  sud- 
denly his  youthful  countenance  was  illumined  by 
a  slightly  solicitous,  confiding,  and  kindly  smile. 
But  the  very  next  moment  he  resumed  his  austere, 
unapproachable  look,  and  his  hand  went  up  to 
his  little  thin  moustache — but  in  it,  in  that  very 
hand,  there  still  lay  that  unlucky  brick!  And  I 
saw  how  painfully  ashamed  he  was  of  that  brick, 
and  of  his  involuntary,  compromising  smile. 
Apparently  he  did  not  know  how  to  blush,  other- 
wise he  would  have  become  as  red  as  the  brick 
which  he  still  held  helplessly  in  his  hand. 

They  had  carried  the  wall  up  half  way,  and  it 
was  no  longer  possible  to  see  what  the  skilful 
masons  were  doing  on  their  scaffolding.  Once 
more  the  gendarme  oscillated  from  end  to  end 
of  the  platform,  yawning,  and  when  he  turned 
round  and  passed  me  I  could  feel  that  he  was 
ashamed — and  that  he  hated  me.  And  as  I 
looked  at  his  powerful  arms  listlessly  swinging  in 
their  sleeves,  at  his  inharmoniously  jingling  spurs 
and  trailing  sabre,  it  seemed  to  me  that  it  was  all 
unreal — that  in  the  scabbard  there  was  no  sabre 
at  all  w^ith  which  he  might  cut  a  man  down,  in 
the  case  no  revolver,  with  which  he  might  shoot 
a  man  dead.  And  his  very  uniform,  that  too  was 
unreal,  and  seemed  as  though  it  w^as  all  just  some 
strange  masquerade  taking  place  in  full  daylight. 


42      AT  THE  ROADSIDE  STATION 

in  the  face  of  the  honest  April  sun,  and  amidst 
ordinary  working  people,  and  busy  fowls  picking 
up  grains  under  the  sleeping-car. 

But  at  times — at  times  I  began  to  fear  for  some 
one.     He  was  so  terribly  bored.  .  . 


SNAPPER 


He  belonged  to  no  one,  he  had  no  name  of  his 
own,  and  none  could  say  where  he  spent  the  long, 
frosty  winter,  or  how  he  was  fed.  The  house- 
dogs hungry  as  himself,  but  proud  and  strong 
from  the  consciousness  of  belonging  to  a  house, 
would  chase  him  aw^ay  from  the  warm  cottages. 
When  driven  by  hunger  or  an  instinctive  need  of 
company,  he  showed  himself  in  the  street,  the 
boys  pelted  him  with  stones  and  sticks,  while  the 
grown-ups  gave  a  merry  whoop,  or  a  terribly 
piercing  whistle.  Distraught  with  fear  he  would 
dart  about  from  side  to  side,  and  stumbling 
against  the  fences  and  people's  legs,  would  run  as 
as  fast  as  he  could  to  the  end  of  the  village,  and 
hide  himself  in  the  depths  of  a  large  garden  in  a 
place  known  only  to  himself.  There  he  would 
lick  his  bruises  and  wounds,  and  in  solitude  heap 
up  terror  and  malice. 

Once  only  had  he  been  pitied  and  petted.  This 
was  by  a  peasant,  a  drunkard,  who  was  return- 
ing from  the  public  house.  Just  then  he  loved 
all  things,  and  pitied  all,  and  said  something  in 
his  beard  about  kind  people,  and  the  trust  he 

43 


44  SNAPPER 

himself  put  in  kind  people.  He  pitied  even  the 
dirty,  unlovely  dog,  on  which  by  chance  his 
drunken,  aimless  glance  had  fallen. 

"Doggie,"  said  he,  calling  it  by  a  name  com- 
mon to  all  dogs;  "Doggie,  come  here,  don't  be 
afraid." 

Doggie  wanted  very  much  to  come.  He 
wagged  his  tail,  but  could  not  make  up  his  mind. 
The  peasant  patted  his  knee  with  his  hand,  and 
repeated  reassuringly: 

"Come  along,  then,  silly.  I  swear  I  won't  hurt 
you." 

But  while  the  dog  was  hesitating,  wagging  its 
tail  more  and  more  energetically,  and  advancing 
with  short  steps,  the  humour  of  the  drunkard 
changed.  He  recalled  all  the  insults  that  had 
been  heaped  on  him  by  kind  people,  and  felt  an- 
gry and  dully  malicious,  so  that  when  Doggie  lay 
on  his  back  before  him,  he  gave  him  a  vicious 
kick  in  the  side  with  the  toe  of  his  heavy  boot. 

"Gam!  Dirty!  Where  are  you  coming 
to!" 

The  dog  began  to  whimper,  more  from  surprise 
and  the  insult,  than  from  pain,  and  the  peasant 
staggered  home,  where  he  gave  his  wife  a  savage 
beating,  and  tore  to  pieces  a  new  kerchief  which 
he  had  bought  for  her  as  a  present  the  week  be- 
fore. 

From  this  time  forth  the  dog  ceased  to  trust 
people  who  wished  to  pet  it,  and  either  put  his  tail 
between  his  legs  and  ran   away,   or  sometimes 


SNAPPER  45 

would  fly  at  them  angrily  and  try  to  bite  them, 
until  they  succeeded  in  driving  him  away  with 
stones  or  a  stick.  For  one  winter  he  had  taken  up 
his  abode  under  the  verandah  of  an  unoccupied 
bungalow  which  was  without  a  caretaker,  and 
took  care  of  it  for  nothing.  By  night  he  ran  about 
the  streets  and  barked  till  he  was  hoarse,  and  long 
after  he  had  lain  himself  dowTi  in  his  place,  he 
would  keep  up  an  angry  growl,  but  beneath  the 
anger  there  was  apparent  a  certain  amount  of 
content,  and  even  pride,  in  himself. 

The  winter  nights  dragged  themselves  out 
slowly,  and  the  black  windows  of  the  empty  bun- 
galow gazed  grimly  on  the  motionless,  icy  garden. 
Sometimes  blue  lights  seemed  to  kindle  in  them, 
at  others  a  falling  star  would  be  reflected  in  the 
panes,  or  again  the  sharp-horned  moon  would 
throw  on  them  its  timid  ray. 


II 

Spring  came  on,  and  the  quiet  bungalow  was 
all  a-voice  with  loud  talk,  the  creaking  of  wheels, 
and  the  stamping  of  people  moving  heavy  things. 
The  owners  had  arrived  from  the  city,  a  whole 
merry  troop  of  grown-up  people,  of  half-grown 
ups  and  children,  all  intoxicated  with  the  air,  the 
warmth  and  the  light.  Some  shouted,  some  sang, 
and  some  laughed  with  shrill  female  voices. 

The  first  with  whom  the  dog  made  acquaint- 


46  SNAPPER 

ance  was  a  pretty  girl,  who  ran  out  into  the 
garden  in  a  formal,  cinnamon-coloured  dress. ^ 
Greedily  and  impatiently  desiring  to  seize  and 
hug  in  her  embrace  everything  visible,  she  looked 
at  the  clear  sky,  at  the  reddish  cherry  twigs,  and 
lay  quickly  down  on  the  grass  with  her  face  to- 
wards the  burning  sun.  Then  she  got  up  again 
as  suddenly,  and  hugging  herself,  and  kissing  the 
Spring  air  with  her  fresh  lips,  said  expressively 
and  seriously: 

"Well,  this  w  jolly!" 

She  spoke,  and  then  suddenly  turned  round. 
At  this  very  moment  the  dog  noiselessly  ap- 
proached, and  furiously  seized  the  extended  skirt 
of  her  dress  in  its  teeth  and  tore  it,  and  then  as 
noiselessly  disappeared  into  the  thick  gooseberry 
and  currant  bushes. 

''Oh!  bad  dog!"  cried  the  girl,  running  away, 
and  for  long  might  be  heard  her  agitated  voice: 
''Mamma!  children!  don't  go  into  the  garden. 
There  is  a  dog  there,  such  a  great,  big,  fierce 
one!" 

At  night  the  dog  crept  up  to  the  sleeping  bunga- 
low, and  noiselessly  lay  down  in  its  place  under 
the  verandah.  It  smelt  of  people,  and  through 
the  open  windows  was  borne  the  soft  sound  of 
gentle  breathing.  The  people  were  asleep,  they 
were  powerless  and  no  longer  terrible,  and  the  dog 
jealously  guarded  them.  He  slept  with  one  eye 
open,  and  at  every  rustle  stretched  out  his  head 

1  Such  as  is  worn  by  schoolgirls  and  girl  students. — Tr. 


SNAPPER  47 

with  its  two  motionless  phosphorescent  eyes. 
But  the  alarming  noises  were  so  many  in  the 
sensitive  Spring  night:  in  the  grass  something 
small  and  unseen  rustled,  and  came  quite  close  to 
the  shiny  nose  of  the  dog;  last  year's  twigs 
crackled  under  the  feet  of  sleeping  birds,  and  on 
the  neighbouring  road  a  cart  rumbled,  and  heav- 
ily-laden wains  creaked.  And  afar  off  round 
about  in  the  motionless  air  was  diffused  the 
sweet,  fresh  scent  of  resin,  and  lured  one  into  the 
lightening  distance. 

The  owners  who  had  arrived  at  the  bungalow 
were  very  kind  people,  and  all  the  more  so  now 
that  they  were  far  from  the  city,  breathing  pure 
air,  seeing  around  them  everything  green,  and 
blue  and  harmless.  The  sunlight  w^nt  into  them 
in  warmth,  and  came  out  again  in  laughter  and 
goodwill  towards  all  things  living.  At  first  they 
wished  to  drive  away  the  dog,  of  which  they  were 
afraid,  and  even  shot  at  it  with  a  revolver,  when 
it  would  not  take  itself  off;  but  later  they  became 
accustomed  to  its  barking  at  night,  and  even  some- 
times remembered  it  in  the  morning: 

"But  Where's  our  Snapper?" 

And  this  new  name  "Snapper"  stuck  to  it. 
Sometimes  even  by  day  they  would  notice  among 
the  bushes  its  dark  body,  which  would  fall  flat  on 
the  ground  at  the  first  motion  of  a  hand  throwing 
bread — as  though  it  were  a  stone,  not  bread, — 
and  soon  all  became  accustomed  to  Snapper,  and 
called  him  "our  dog,"  and  joked  about  the  cause 


48  SNAPPER 

of  his  shyness  and  unreasonable  fear.  Each  day 
Snapper  diminished  by  one  step  the  distance 
which  separated  him  from  the  people;  he  grew 
accustomed  to  their  faces,  and  adopted  their 
habits.  Half  an  hour  before  dinner  he  would 
be  already  standing  in  the  shrubs,  blinking  with 
a  conciliatory  air.  And  that  same  little  school- 
girl it  was,  who,  forgetting  the  former  outrage, 
brought  the  dog  definitely  into  the  happy  circle 
of  cheerful,  restful  people. 

''Snapper,  come  here,"  said  she,  calling  him. 
''Good  dog,  come  here.  Do  you  like  sugar? 
I'll  give  you  a  lump.     Come  along,  then." 

But  Snapper  would  not  come;  he  was  afraid. 
Then  cautiously  patting  her  knee,  and  speaking 
with  all  the  caressing  kindness  of  a  beautiful 
voice  and  a  pretty  face,  Lelya  approached  the 
dog,  but  was  in  her  turn  afraid;  suddenly  he 
snapped. 

"I  am  so  fond  of  you.  Snapper,  dear;  you  have 
such  a  nice  little  nose,  and  such  expressive  eyes. 
Won't  you  trust  me,  Snapperkin?" 

Lelya  raised  her  eyebrows,  and  her  own  little 
nose  was  so  pretty  and  her  eyes  so  expressive,  that 
the  sun  acted  wisely  in  covering  all  her  little 
youthful,  naively  charming  face  with  hot  kisses, 
till  her  cheeks  were  red. 

Snapper  for  the  second  time  in  his  life  turned 
on  his  back  and  closed  his  eyes,  not  knowing  for 
a  certainty  whether  he  was  to  be  kicked  or  petted. 
But  he  was  petted.     Small  warm  hands  touched 


SNAPPER  49 

irresolutely  his  woolly  head,  and  as  though  this 
were  a  sign  of  undeniable  authority,  began  freely 
and  boldly  to  run  over  the  whole  of  his  hairy 
body,  rumpling,  petting,  and  tickling. 

^'Mamma!  children!  look  here,  I'm  petting 
Snapper,"  cried  Lelya. 

When  the  children  ran  up,  noisy,  loud-voiced, 
quick  and  bright  as  drops  of  uncontrollable  mer- 
cury. Snapper  cowed  down  in  fear  and  helpless 
expectancy:  he  knew  that  if  any  one  struck  him 
now,  he  would  no  longer  be  in  a  position  to  fix  his 
sharp  teeth  in  the  body  of  the  offender :  his  unap- 
peasable malice  had  been  taken  from  him.  And 
when  they  all  began  to  vie  in  caressing  him,  he 
for  a  long  time  could  not  help  trembling  at  each 
touch  of  the  caressing  hand,  and  the  unwonted 
fondling  hurt  him  as  though  it  had  been  a  blow. 


Ill 

All  Snapper's  doggy  nature  expanded.  He 
had  now  a  name,  at  the  sound  of  which  he  rushed 
headlong  from  the  green  depths  of  the  garden ;  he 
belonged  to  people,  and  could  serve  them.  What 
more  did  a  dog  need  to  make  him  happy! 

Being  accustomed  to  the  moderation  induced  by 
years  of  a  vagrant,  hungry  life,  he  ate  but  little, 
but  that  little  changed  him  out  of  recognition. 
His  long  coat,  which  formerly  had  hung  in  foxy 
dry  tufts  on  his  back  and  on  his  belly,  which  had 


so  SNAPPER 

been  covered  eternally  with  dried  mud,  now  be- 
came clean,  and  grew  black,  and  became  as  glossy 
as  velvet.  And  when  he,  having  nothing  better 
to  do,  would  run  to  the  gates  and  stand  on  the 
threshold,  looking  up  and  down  the  street  with  a 
dignified  air,  no  one  ever  took  it  into  his  head  to 
tease  him  or  throw  stones  at  him. 

But  such  pride  and  independence  he  could  en- 
joy only  to  himself.  Fear  had  not  as  yet  been 
wholly  evaporated  from  his  heart  by  the  fire  of 
caresses,  and  so  every  time  people  appeared,  or 
approached  him,  he  hid  himself  expecting  a  beat- 
ing. And  still  for  a  long  time  every  caress  came 
to  him  as  a  surprise,  and  a  wonder,  which  he 
could  neither  understand,  nor  respond  to.  He 
did  not  know  how  to  receive  caresses.  Other 
dogs  could  stand  and  walk  about  on  their  hind 
legs  and  even  smile,  and  thus  express  their  feel- 
ings, but  he  did  not  know  how. 

The  one  only  thing  that  Snapper  was  able  to 
do  was  to  roll  on  his  back,  shut  his  eyes,  and 
whimper  gently.  But  this  was  insufficient,  it 
could  not  express  his  delight,  his  thankfulness 
and  love.  By  a  sudden  inspiration,  however. 
Snapper  began  to  do  something,  which  maybe  he 
had  seen  done  by  other  dogs,  but  had  long  since 
forgotten.  He  turned  absurd  somersaults,  leapt 
awkwardly,  and  ran  after  his  tail;  and  his  body, 
which  had  been  always  so  supple  and  active,  be- 
came stiff,  ridiculous,  and  pitiful. 

"Mamma!  children!  look,  Snapper  is  perform- 


SNAPPER  51 

ing,"  cried  Lelya,  and  choking  with  laughter, 
said:  "Once  more,  Snapper,  once  more.  That's 
right!" 

And  they  gathered  together  and  laughed,  and 
Snapper  kept  on  twisting  round,  and  turning 
somersaults  and  falling,  and  no  one  saw  the 
strange  entreating  look  in  his  eyes.  And  as  for- 
merly they  used  to  howl  and  shout  at  the  dog  to 
see  his  despairing  fear,  so  now  they  caressed  him 
on  purpose  to  excite  in  him  an  ebullition  of  love, 
so  infinitely  laughable  in  its  awkward,  absurd 
manifestations.  Hardly  an  hour  passed  but  some 
one  of  the  half-grown-ups  or  the  children  would 
cry: 

"Now  then.  Snapper  dear,  perform!" 

And  Snapper  would  twist  about,  turn  somer- 
saults, and  fall,  amid  merry,  irrepressible  laugh- 
ter. They  praised  him  to  his  face  and  behind  his 
back,  and  lamented  only  one  thing,  viz.,  that  he 
would  not  show  off  his  tricks  before  strangers, 
who  came  to  visit,  but  would  run  away  into  the 
garden,  or  hide  himself  under  the  verandah. 

Gradually  Snapper  became  accustomed  to  not 
being  obliged  to  trouble  himself  about  his  food, 
since  at  the  appointed  hour  the  cook  would  give 
him  scraps  and  bones,  while  he  confidently  and 
quietly  lay  in  his  place  under  the  verandah,  and 
even  sought  and  asked  for  caresses.  And  he  grew 
heavy:  he  seldom  ran  away  from  the  bungalow, 
and  when  the  little  children  called  him  to  go  with 
them  to  the  forest,  he  would  wag  an  evasive  tail, 


52  SNAPPER 

and  disappear  unseen.     But  all  the  same  at  night 
his  bark  would  be  loud  and  wakeful  as  ever. 


IV 

Autumn  began  to  glow  with  yellow  fires,  and 
the  sky  to  weep  with  heavy  rain,  and  the  bunga- 
lows became  quickly  empty,  and  silent,  as  though 
the  incessant  rain  and  wind  had  extinguished 
them  one  by  one,  like  candles. 

''What  are  we  to  do  with  Snapper?"  asked 
Lelya,  with  hesitation.  She  was  sitting  embrac- 
ing her  knees  and  looking  sorrowfully  out  of  the 
window,  down  which  were  rolling  glistening  drops 
of  rain. 

''What  a  position  you're  in,  Lelya;  that's  not 
the  way  to  sit!"  said  her  mother,  and  added: 
^'Snapper  must  be  left  behind,  poor  fellow." 

"That's — a — pity,"  said  Lelya  lingeringly. 

"But  what  can  one  do?  We  have  no  court- 
yard at  home,  and  we  can't  keep  him  in  the  house, 
that  you  must  very  well  understand." 

"It's — a — pity,"  repeated  Lelya,  ready  to  cry. 
Her  dark  brows  were  raised,  like  a  swallow's 
wings,  and  her  pretty  little  nose  puckered  pit- 
eously,  when  her  mother  said: 

"The  Dogayevs  offered  me  a  puppy  some  time 
ago.  They  say  that  it  is  very  well  bred,  and 
ready  trained.  Do  you  see?  But  this  is  only  a 
yard-dog." 


SNAPPER  53 

"A — ^pity,"  repeated  Lelya,  but  she  did  not 
cry. 

Once,  more  strangers  arrived,  and  wagons 
creaked,  and  the  floors  groaned  beneath  heavy 
footsteps,  but  there  was  less  talk,  and  no  laughter 
was  heard  at  all.  Terrified  by  the  strange  people, 
and  dimly  prescient  of  calamity.  Snapper  fled  to 
the  extreme  end  of  the  garden,  and  thence  through 
the  thinning  bushes  gazed  unceasingly  at  that 
corner  of  the  verandah  which  w^as  open  to  his 
view,  and  at  the  figures  in  red  shirts  which  were 
moving  about  on  it. 

^'You  there!  my  poor  Snapper,"  said  Lelya  as 
she  came  out.  She  was  already  dressed  for  the 
journey  in  the  same  cinnamon  skirt,  out  of  which 
Snapper  had  torn  a  piece,  and  a  black  jacket. 
^'Come  along!" 

And  they  went  out  into  the  road.  The  rain 
kept  coming  and  going,  and  the  whole  expanse 
between  the  blackened  earth  and  the  sky  was  full 
of  clubbed,  swiftly-moving  clouds.  From  below 
it  could  be  seen  how  heavy  they  were,  impene- 
trable to  the  light  on  account  of  the  water  which 
saturated  them,  and  how  weary  the  sun  must  be 
behind  that  solid  wall. 

To  the  left  of  the  road  stretched  the  darkened 
stubble  field,  and  only  on  the  near  hummocky 
horizon  short  uneven  trees  and  shrubs  appeared 
in  lonesome  patches.  In  front,  not  far  off,  was 
the  barrier,  and  near  it  a  wine-shop  with  red  iron 


54  SNAPPER 

roof,  and  by  it  was  a  group  of  people  teasing  the 
village  idiot  Ilyusha. 

''Give  us  a  ha'penny,"  snuffled  the  idiot  in  a 
drawling  voice,  and  evil,  jeering  voices  replied 
all  together: 

"Will  you  chop  up  some  wood?" 

Ilyusha  reviled  foully  and  cynically,  and  the 
others  laughed  without  mirth.  A  sunray  broke 
through,  yellow  and  ana3mic,  as  though  the  sun 
were  hopelessly  sick;  and  the  foggy  Autumn  dis- 
tance became  wider,  and  more  melancholy. 

"I'm  sorry.  Snapper! "  Lelya  gently  let  fall  the 
words,  and  went  back  without  looking  round.  It 
was  not  till  she  reached  the  station  that  she  re- 
membered that  she  had  not  said  good-bye  to 
Snapper. 

Snapper  long  followed  the  track  of  the  people 
as  they  went  away,  he  ran  as  far  as  the  station, 
and  wet  through  and  muddy,  returned  to  the 
bungalow.  There  he  performed  one  more  new 
trick,  which  no  one,  however,  was  there  to  see. 
For  the  first  time  he  went  on  to  the  verandah, 
stood  on  his  hind  legs,  looked  in  at  the  glass 
door,  and  even  scratched  at  it.  But  the  rooms 
were  all  empty,  and  no  one  answered  him. 

A  violent  rain  poured  down,  and  on  all  sides 
the  darkness  of  the  long  Autumn  night  began  to 
close  in.  Quickly  and  dully  it  filled  the  empty 
bungalow :  noiselessly  it  crept  out  from  the  shrubs 
and  in  company  with  the  rain,  poured  down  from 
the   uninviting    sky.     On    the   verandah,    from 


SNAPPER  ss 

which  the  awning  had  been  taken  away,  and 
which  for  that  reason  looked  like  a  broad  and  un- 
known waste,  the  light  had  long  been  in  conflict 
with  the  darkness,  and  mournfully  illumined  the 
marks  of  dirty  feet;  but  soon  it  gave  in. 

Night  had  come  on. 

When  there  was  no  longer  any  doubt  that  the 
night  was  upon  him,  the  dog  began  to  howl  in 
loud  complaint.  With  a  note  resonant,  and 
sharp  as  despair,  that  howl  broke  into  the  mo- 
notonous, sullenly  persistent  sound  of  the  rain, 
rending  the  darkness,  and  then  dying  down  was 
carried  over  the  dark  naked  fields. 

The  dog  howled — regularly,  persistently,  des- 
perately, soberly — and  to  any  one  who  heard 
that  howling  it  seemed  as  though  the  impene- 
trable dark  night  itself  were  groaning  and  longing 
for  the  light,  and  he  would  wish  himself  with  his 
wife  by  his  warm  fireside. 

The  dog  howled. 


THE  LIE 


''You  lie!      I  know  you  lie! " 

"What  are  you  shouting  for?  Is  it  necessary 
that  every  one  should  hear  us?" 

And  here  again  she  lied,  for  I  had  not  shouted, 
but  spoken  in  the  quietest  voice,  holding  her  hand 
and  speaking  quite  gently  while  that  venomous 
word  "lie"  hissed  like  a  little  serpent. 

"I  love  you,"  she  continued,  "and  you  ought 
to  believe  me.     Does  not  this  convince  you?" 

And  she  kissed  me.  But  when  I  was  about  to 
take  hold  of  her  hand  and  press  it — she  was  al- 
ready gone.  She  left  the  semi-dark  corridor, 
and  I  followed  her  once  more  to  the  place  where 
a  gay  party  was  just  coming  to  an  end.  How 
did  I  know  where  it  was  ?  She  had  told  me  that 
I  might  go  there,  and  I  went  there  and  watched 
the  dancing  all  the  night  through.  No  one  came 
near  me,  or  spoke  to  me,  I  was  a  stranger  to  all, 
and  sat  in  the  corner  near  the  band.  Pointed 
straight  at  me  was  the  mouth  of  a  great  brass  in- 
strument, through  which  some  one  hidden  in  the 
depths  of  it  kept  bellowing,  and  every  minute  or 
so  would  give  a  rude  staccato  laugh:  "Ho!  ho! 
ho!" 

From  time  to  time  a  scented  white  cloud  would 
56 


THE  LIE  57 

come  close  to  me.  It  was  she.  I  knew  not  how 
she  managed  to  caress  me  without  being  ob- 
served, but  for  one  short  little  second  her  shoulder 
would  press  mine,  and  for  one  short  little  second 
I  would  lower  my  eyes  and  see  a  white  neck  in 
the  opening  of  a  white  dress.  And  when  I  raised 
my  eyes  I  saw  a  profile  as  white,  severe,  and 
truthful  as  that  of  a  pensive  angel  on  the  tomb  of 
the  long-forgotten  dead.  And  I  saw  her  eyes. 
They  were  large,  greedy  of  the  light,  beautiful 
and  calm.  From  their  blue-white  setting  the  pu- 
pils shone  black,  and  the  more  I  looked  at  them 
the  blacker  they  seemed,  and  the  more  unfathom- 
able their  depths.  Maybe  I  looked  at  them  for  so 
short  a  time  that  my  heart  failed  to  make  the 
slightest  impression,  but  certainly  never  did  I  un- 
derstand so  profoundly  and  terribly  the  meaning 
of  Infinity,  nor  ever  realised  it  with  such  force.  I 
felt  in  fear  and  pain  that  my  very  life  was  passing 
out  in  a  slender  ray  into  her  eyes,  until  I  became 
a  stranger  to  myself — desolated,  speechless,  al- 
most dead.  Then  she  would  leave  me,  taking 
my  life  with  her,  and  dance  again  with  a  certain 
tall,  haughty,  but  handsome  partner  of  hers.  I 
studied  his  every  characteristic — ^the  shape  of  his 
shoes,  the  width  of  his  rather  high  shoulders,  the 
rhythmic  sway  of  one  of  his  locks,  which  sepa- 
rated itself  from  the  rest,  while  with  his  indiffer- 
ent, unseeing  glance  he,  as  it  were,  crushed  me 
against  the  wall,  and  I  felt  myself  as  flat  and  life- 
less to  look  at  as  the  wall  itself. 


58  THE  LIE 

When  they  began  to  extinguish  the  lights,  I 
went  up  to  her  and  said: 

''It  is  time  to  go.     I  will  accompany  you." 

But  she  expressed  surprise. 

"But  certainly  I  am  going  with  him,"  and  she 
pointed  to  the  tall,  handsome  man,  who  was  not 
looking  at  us.  She  led  me  out  into  an  empty 
room  and  kissed  me. 

"You  lie,"  I  said  very  softly. 

"We  shall  meet  again  to-morrow.  You  must 
come,"  was  her  answer. 

When  I  drove  home,  the  green  frosty  dawn  was 
looking  out  from  behind  the  high  roofs.  In  the 
whole  street  there  were  only  we  two,  the  sledge- 
driver  and  I.  He  sat  with  bent  head  and 
wrapped-up  face,  and  I  sat  behind  him  wrapped 
up  to  the  very  eyes.  The  sledge-driver  had  his 
thoughts,  and  I  had  mine,  and  there  behind  the 
thick  walls  thousands  of  people  were  sleeping, 
and  they  had  their  own  dreams  and  thoughts.  I 
thought  of  her,  and  of  how  she  lied.  I  thought 
of  death,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  those  dimly- 
lightened  walls  had  already  looked  upon  my 
death,  and  that  was  why  they  were  so  cold  and 
upright.  I  know  not  what  the  thoughts  of  the 
sledge-driver  may  have  been,  neither  do  I  know 
of  what  those  hidden  by  the  walls  were  dreaming. 
But  then,  neither  did  they  know  my  thoughts  and 
reveries. 

And  so  we  drove  on  through  the  long  and 
straight  streets,  and  the  dawn  rose  from  behind 


THE  LIE  59 

the  roofs,   and  all  around  was  motionless  and 
white.    A  cold  scented  cloud  came  close  to  me,  and 
straight  into  my  ear  some  one  unseen  laughed: 
'^Ho!  ho!  ho!" 

II 

She  had  lied.  She  did  not  come,  and  I  waited 
for  her  in  vain.  The  grey,  uniform,  frozen  semi- 
darkness  descended  from  the  lightless  sky,  and 
I  was  not  conscious  of  when  the  twilight  passed 
into  evening,  and  when  the  evening  passed  into 
night — to  me  it  was  all  one  long  night.  I  kept 
walking  backwards  and  forwards  with  the  same 
even,  measured  steps  of  hope  deferred.  I  did 
not  come  close  up  to  the  tall  house,  where  my  be- 
loved dwelt,  nor  to  its  glazed  door  which  shone 
yellow  at  the  end  of  the  iron  covered  way,  but  I 
walked  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street  with  the 
same  measured  strides — backwards  and  forwards, 
backwards  and  forwards.  In  going  forward  I 
did  not  take  my  eye  off  the  glazed  door,  and  when 
I  turned  back  I  stopped  frequently  and  turned  my 
head  round,  and  then  the  snow  pricked  my  face 
with  its  sharp  needles.  And  so  long  were  those 
sharp  cold  needles  that  they  penetrated  to  my  very 
heart,  and  pierced  it  with  grief  and  anger  at  my 
useless  waiting.  The  cold  wind  blew  uninter- 
ruptedly from  the  bright  north  to  the  dark  south, 
and  whistled  playfully  on  the  icy  roofs,  and  re- 
bounding cut  my  face  with  sharp  little  snow- 


6o  THE  LIE 

flakes,  and  softly  tapped  the  glasses  of  the  empty 
lanterns,  in  which  the  lonely  yellow  flame,  shiver- 
ing with  cold,  bent  to  the  draught.  And  I  felt 
sorry  for  the  lonely  flame  which  lived  only  by 
night,  and  I  thought  to  myself,  when  I  go  away 
all  life  will  end  in  this  street,  and  only  the  snow- 
flakes  will  fly  through  the  empty  space;  but  still 
the  yellow  flame  will  continue  to  shiver  and  bend 
in  loneliness  and  cold. 

I  waited  for  her,  but  she  came  not.  And  it 
seemed  to  me  that  the  lonely  flame  and  I  were 
like  one  another,  only  that  my  lamp  was  not 
empty,  for  in  that  void,  which  I  kept  measuring 
with  my  strides,  there  did  sometimes  appear  peo- 
ple. They  grew  up  unheard  behind  my  back,  big 
and  dark;  they  passed  me,  and  like  ghosts  sud- 
denly disappeared  round  the  corner  of  the  white 
building.  Then  again  they  would  come  out  from 
round  the  corner,  come  up  alongside  of  me  and 
then  gradually  melt  away  in  the  great  distance, 
obscured  by  the  silently  falling  snow.  Muffled 
up,  formless,  silent,  they  were  so  like  to  one  an- 
other and  to  myself  that  it  seemed  as  if  scores  of 
people  were  walking  backwards  and  forwards 
and  waiting,  as  I  was,  shivering  and  silent,  and 
were  thinking  their  own  enigmatic  sad  thoughts. 

I  waited  for  her,  but  she  came  not.  I  know 
not  why  I  did  not  cry  out  and  weep  for  pain.  I 
know  not  why  I  laughed  and  was  glad,  and 
crooked  my  fingers  like  claws,  as  though  I  held  in 
them  that  little  venomous  thing  which  kept  hiss- 


THE  LIE  6i 

ing  like  a  snake:  a  lie!  It  wriggled  in  my 
hands,  and  bit  my  heart,  and  my  head  reeled  with 
its  poison.  Everything  was  a  lie!  The  bound- 
ary line  between  the  future  and  the  present,  the 
present  and  the  past,  vanished.  The  boundary 
line  between  the  time  when  I  did  not  yet  exist, 
and  the  time  when  I  began  to  be,  vanished,  and 
I  thought  that  I  must  have  always  been  alive,  or 
else  never  have  lived  at  all.  And  always,  before 
I  lived  and  when  I  began  to  live,  she  had  ruled 
over  me,  and  I  felt  it  strange  that  she  should  have 
a  name  and  a  body,  and  that  her  existence  should 
have  a  beginning  and  an  end.  She  had  no  name, 
she  was  always  the  one  that  lies,  that  makes  eter- 
nally to  wait,  and  never  comes.  And  I  knew  not 
why,  but  I  laughed,  and  the  sharp  needles  pierced 
my  heart,  and  right  into  my  ear  some  one  unseen 
laughed : 

"Ho!  ho!  ho!" 

Opening  my  eyes  I  looked  at  the  lighted  win- 
dows of  the  lofty  house,  and  they  quietly  said  to 
me  in  their  blue  and  red  language: 

"Thou  art  deceived  by  her.  At  this  very  mo- 
ment whilst  thou  art  wandering,  waiting,  and 
suffering,  she,  all  bright,  lovely,  and  treacherous, 
is  there,  listening  to  the  whispers  of  that  tall, 
handsome  man,  who  despises  thee.  If  thou  wert 
to  break  in  there  and  kill  her,  thou  wouldst  be 
doing  a  good  deed,  for  thou  wouldst  slay  a 
lie.'' 

I  gripped  the  knife  I  held  in  my  hand  tighter, 


62  THE  LIE 

and  answered  laughingly:  "Yes,  I  will  kill  her.'^ 

But  the  windows  gazed  at  me  mournfully,  and 
added  sadly:  ''Thou  wilt  never  kill  her.  Never! 
because  the  weapon  thou  holdest  in  thy  hand  is 
as  much  a  lie  as  are  her  kisses." 

The  silent  shadows  of  my  fellow-watchers  had 
disappeared  long  ago,  and  I  was  left  alone  in  the 
cold  void,  I — and  the  lonely  tongues  of  fire  shiv- 
ering with  cold  and  despair.  The  clock  in  the 
neighbouring  church-tower  began  to  strike,  and 
its  dismal  metallic  sound  trembled  and  wept,  fly- 
ing aw^ay  into  the  void,  and  being  lost  in  the  maze 
of  silently  whirling  snowflakes.  I  began  to  count 
the  strokes,  and  went  into  a  fit  of  laughter.  The 
clock  struck  1 5 !  The  belfry  was  old,  and  so, 
too,  was  the  clock,  and  although  it  indicated  the 
right  time,  it  struck  spasmodically,  sometimes  so 
often  that  the  grey,  ancient  bell-ringer  had  to 
clamber  up  and  stop  the  convulsive  strokes  of  the 
hammer  with  his  hand.  For  whom  did  those 
senilely  tremulous,  melancholy  sounds,  which 
were  embraced  and  throttled  by  the  frosty  dark- 
ness, tell  a  lie?  So  pitiable  and  inept  was  that 
useless  lie. 

With  the  last  lying  sounds  of  the  clock  the 
glazed  door  slammed,  and  a  tall  man  made  his 
way  down  the  steps. 

I  saw  only  his  back,  but  I  recognized  it  as  I 
had  seen  it  only  last  evening,  proud  and  con- 
temptuous. I  recognized  his  walk,  and  it  was 
lighter  and  more  confident  than  in  the  evening: 


THE  LIE  63 

thus  had  I  often  left  that  door.  He  walked,  as 
those  do,  whom  the  lying  lips  of  a  woman  have 
just  kissed. 


Ill 


I  threatened  and  entreated,  grinding  my  teeth: 

^Tell  me  the  truth!" 

But  with  a  face  cold  as  snow,  while  from  be- 
neath her  brows,  lifted  in  surprise,  her  dark,  in- 
scrutable eyes  shone  passionless  and  mysterious 
as  ever,  she  assured  me: 

''But  I  am  not  lying  to  you." 

She  knew  that  I  could  not  prove  her  lie,  and 
that  all  my  heavy  massive  structure  of  torturing 
thought  would  crumble  at  one  word  from  her, 
even  one  lying  word.  I  waited  for  it — and  it 
came  forth  from  her  lips,  sparkling  on  the  sur- 
face with  the  colours  of  truth,  but  dark  in  its 
innermost  depths: 

"I  love  thee!      Am  not  I  all  thine?" 

We  were  far  from  the  town,  and  the  snow- 
clad  plain  looked  in  at  the  dark  windows.  Upon 
it  was  darkness,  and  around  it  was  darkness, 
gross,  motionless,  silent,  but  the  plain  shone  with 
its  own  latent  coruscation,  like  the  face  of  a 
corpse  in  the  dark.  In  the  over-heated  room 
only  one  candle  was  burning,  and  on  its  redden- 
ing flame  there  appeared  the  white  reflection  of 
the  deathlike  plain. 

"However  sad  the  truth  may  be,  I  want  to 


64  THE  LIE 

know  it.  Maybe  I  shall  die  when  I  know  it,  but 
death  rather  than  ignorance  of  the  truth.  In 
your  kisses  and  embraces  I  feel  a  lie.  In  your 
eyes  I  see  it.  Tell  me  the  truth  and  I  will  leave 
you  forever,"  said  I. 

But  she  was  silent.  Her  coldly  searching  look 
penetrated  my  inmost  depths,  and  drawing  out 
my  soul,  regarded  it  with  strange  curiosity. 

And  I  cried:     "Answer,  or  I  will  kill  you!" 

"Yes,  do!"  she  quietly  replied;  "sometimes 
life  is  so  wearisome.  But  the  truth  is  not  to  be 
extracted  by  threat." 

And  then  I  knelt  to  her.  Clasping  her  hand  I 
wept,  and  prayed  for  pity  and  the  truth. 

"Poor  fellow!"  said  she,  putting  her  hand  on 
my  head,  "poor  fellow!" 

"Pity  me,"  I  prayed,  "I  want  so  much  to  know 
the  truth." 

And  as  I  looked  at  her  pure  forehead,  I  thought 
that  truth  must  be  there  behind  that  slender  bar- 
rier. And  I  madly  wished  to  smash  the  skull 
to  get  at  the  truth.  There,  too,  behind  a  white 
bosom  beat  a  heart,  and  I  madly  wished  to  tear 
her  bosom  with  my  nails,  to  see  but  for  once  an 
unveiled  human  heart.  And  the  pointed,  mo- 
tionless flames  of  the  expiring  candle  burnt  yellow 
— and  the  walls  grew  dark  and  seemed  farther 
apart — and  it  felt  so  sad,  so  lonely,  so  eery. 

"Poor  fellow ! "  she  said.     "Poor  fellow ! " 

And  the  yellow  flame  of  the  candle  shivered 
spasmodically,    burnt    low,    and    became    blue. 


THE  LIE  65 

Then  it  went  out — and  darkness  enveloped  us. 
I  could  not  see  her  face,  nor  her  eyes,  for  her 
arms  embraced  my  head — and  I  no  longer  felt 
the  lie.  Closing  my  eyes,  I  neither  thought  nor 
lived,  but  only  absorbed  the  touch  of  her  hands, 
and  it  seemed  to  me  true.  And  in  the  darkness 
she  whispered  in  a  strangely  fearsome  voice: 

'Tut  your  arms  round  me — I'm  afraid." 

Again  there  was  silence,  and  again  the  gentle 
whisper  fraught  with  fear! 

''You  desire  the  truth — but  do  I  know  it  my- 
self? And  oh!  don't  I  wish  I  did?  Take  care 
of  me;  oh!  I'm  so  frightened!" 

I  opened  my  eyes.  The  paling  darkness  of 
the  room  fled  in  fear  from  the  lofty  windows, 
and  gathering  near  the  walls  hid  itself  in  the 
corners.  But  through  the  windows  there  silently 
looked  in  a  something  huge,  deadly-white.  It 
seemed  as  though  some  one's  dead  eyes  were 
searching  for  us,  and  enveloping  us  in  their  icy 
gaze.  Presently  we  pressed  close  together,  while 
she  whispered: 

"Oh!  I  am  so  frightened!" 


IV 

I  killed  her.  I  killed  her,  and  when  she  lay 
a  flat,  lifeless  heap  by  the  window,  beyond  which 
shone  the  dead-white  plain,  I  put  my  foot  on 
her  corpse,  and  burst  into  a  fit  of  laughter.     It 


66  THE  LIE 

was  not  the  laugh  of  a  madman;  oh,  no!  I 
laughed  because  my  bosom  heaved  lightly  and 
evenly,  and  within  it  all  was  cheerful,  peaceful, 
and  void,  and  because  from  my  heart  had  fallen 
the  worm  which  had  been  gnawing  it.  And 
bending  down  I  looked  into  her  dead  eyes. 
Great,  greedy  of  the  light,  they  remained  open, 
and  v/ere  like  the  eyes  of  a  wax  doll — so  round 
and  dull  were  they,  as  though  covered  with  mica. 
I  was  able  to  touch  them  vrith  my  fingers,  open 
and  shut  them,  and  I  was  not  afraid,  because  in 
those  black,  inscrutable  pupils  there  lived  no 
longer  that  demon  of  lying  and  doubt,  which  so 
long,  so  greedily,  had  sucked  m.y  blood. 

When  they  arrested  me  I  laughed.  And  this 
seemed  terrible  and  wild  to  those  who  seized  me. 
Some  of  them  turned  away  from  me  in  disgust, 
and  went  aside;  others  advanced  threateningly 
straight  towards  me,  with  condemnation  on  their 
lips,  but  when  my  bright,  cheerful  glance  met 
their  eyes,  their  faces  blanched,  and  their  feet 
became  rooted  to  the  ground. 

''Mad!"  they  said,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that 
they  found  comfort  in  the  word,  because  it  helped 
to  solve  the  enigma  of  how  I  could  love  and  yet 
kill  the  beloved — and  laugh.  One  of  them  only, 
a  man  of  full  habit  and  sanguine  temperament, 
called  me  by  another  name,  which  I  felt  as  a 
blow,  and  which  extinguished  the  light  in  my 
eyes. 

'Toor  man!"  said  he  in  compassion,  although 


THE  LIE  67 

devoid  of  anger — for  he  was  stout  and  cheerful. 
"Poor  fellow!" 

"Don't!"  cried  I.     "Don't  call  me  that!" 

I  know  not  why  I  threw  myself  upon  him.  In- 
deed, I  had  no  desire  to  kill  him,  or  even  to  touch 
him;  but  all  these  cowed  people  who  looked  on 
me  as  a  madman  and  a  villain,  were  all  the  more 
frightened,  and  cried  out  so  that  it  seemed  to  me 
again  quite  ludicrous. 

When  they  were  leading  me  out  of  the  room 
where  the  corpse  lay,  I  repeated  loudly  and  per- 
sistently, looking  at  the  stout,  cheerful  man: 

"I  am  happy,  happy!" 

And  that  was  the  truth. 


Once,  when  I  was  a  child,  I  saw  in  a  menag- 
erie a  panther,  which  struck  my  imagination  and 
for  long  held  my  thoughts  captive.  It  was  not 
like  the  other  wild  beasts,  which  dozed  without 
thought  or  angrily  gazed  at  the  visitors.  It 
walked  from  corner  to  corner,  in  one  and  the 
same  line,  with  mathematical  precision,  each  time 
turning  on  exactly  the  same  spot,  each  time  graz- 
ing with  its  tawny  side  one  and  the  same  metal 
bar  of  the  cage.  Its  sharp,  ravenous  head  was 
bent  down,  and  its  eyes  looked  straight  before  it, 
never  once  turning  aside.  For  whole  days  a 
noisily  chattering  crowd  trooped  before  its  cage, 
but  it  kept  up  its  tramp,  and  never  once  turned 


68  THE  LIE 

an  eye  on  the  spectators.  A  few  of  the  crowd 
laughed,  but  the  majority  looked  seriously,  even 
sadly,  at  that  living  picture  of  heavy,  hopeless 
brooding,  and  went  away  with  a  sigh.  And  as 
they  retired,  they  cast  once  more  round  at  her 
a  doubting,  inquiring  glance  and  sighed — as 
though  there  was  something  in  common  between 
their  own  lot,  free  as  they  were,  and  that  of  the 
unhappy,  eager  wild  beast.  And  when  later  on  I 
was  grown  up,  and  people,  or  books,  spoke  to  me 
of  eternity,  I  called  to  mind  the  panther,  and  it 
seemed  to  me  that  I  knew  eternity  and  its  pains. 

Such  a  panther  did  I  become  in  my  stone  cage. 
I  walked  and  thought.  I  walked  in  one  line  right 
across  my  cage  from  corner  to  corner,  and  along 
one  short  line  travelled  my  thoughts,  so  heavy 
that  it  seemed  that  my  shoulders  carried  not  a 
head,  but  a  whole  world.  But  it  consisted  of  but 
one  word,  but  what  an  immense,  what  a  torturing, 
what  an  ominous  word  it  was. 

"Lie! "  that  was  the  word. 

Once  more  it  crept  forth  hissing  from  all  the 
corners,  and  twined  itself  about  my  soul;  but  it 
had  ceased  to  be  a  little  snake,  it  had  developed 
into  a  great,  glittering,  fierce  serpent.  It  bit  me, 
and  stifled  me  in  its  iron  coils,  and  when  I  be- 
gan to  cry  out  with  pain,  as  though  my  whole 
bosom  were  swarming  with  reptiles,  I  could  only 
utter  that  abominable,  hissing,  serpent-like  sound : 
''Lie!'' 


THE  LIE  69 

And  as  I  walked,  and  thought,  the  grey  level 
asphalt  of  the  floor  changed  before  my  eyes  into 
a  grey,  transparent  abyss.  My  feet  ceased  to  feel 
the  touch  of  the  floor,  and  I  seemed  to  be  soaring 
at  a  limitless  height  above  the  fog  and  mist. 
And  when  my  bosom  gave  forth  its  hissing  groan, 
thence — from  below — from  under  that  rarifying, 
but  still  impenetrable  shroud,  there  slowly  issued 
a  terrible  echo.  So  slow  and  dull  was  it,  as 
though  it  were  passing  through  a  thousand  years. 
And  every  now  and  then,  as  the  fog  lifted,  the 
sound  became  less  loud,  and  I  understood  that 
there — below — it  was  still  whistling  like  a  wind, 
that  tears  down  the  trees,  while  it  reached  my  ears 
in  a  short,  ominous  whisper: 

'Tie!" 

This  mean  whisper  worked  me  up  into  a  rage, 
and  I  stamped  on  the  floor  and  cried : 

'There  is  no  lie!      I  killed  the  lie." 

Then  I  purposely  turned  aside,  for  I  knew 
what  it  would  reply.  And  it  did  reply  slowly 
from  the  depths  of  the  bottomless  abyss : 

'Tie!" 

The  fact  is,  as  you  perceive,  that  I  had  made 
a  grievous  mistake.  I  had  killed  the  woman,  but 
made  the  lie  immortal.  Kill  not  a  woman  till 
you  have,  by  prayer,  by  fire,  and  torture,  torn 
from  her  soul  the  truth ! 

So  thought  I,  and  continued  my  endless  tramp 
from  corner  to  corner  of  the  cell. 


70  THE  LIE 


VI 


Dark  and  terrible  is  the  place  to  which  she 
carried  the  truth,  and  the  lie — and  I  am  going 
thither.  At  the  very  throne  of  Satan  I  shall  over- 
take her,  and  falling  on  my  knees  will  weep ;  and 
cry: 

"Tell  me  the  truth!" 

But  God !  This  is  also  a  lie.  There,  there  is 
darkness,  there  is  the  void  of  ages  and  of  in- 
finity, and  there  she  is  not — she  is  nowhere.  But 
the  lie  remains,  it  is  immortal.  I  feel  it  in  every 
atom  of  the  air,  and  when  I  breathe,  it  enters  my 
bosom  with  a  hissing,  and  then  rends  it — yes, 
rends ! 

Oh!  what  madness  it  is — to  be  man  and  to 
seek  the  truth!     What  pain! 

Help!     Help! 


AN  ORIGINAL 

A  MOMENT  of  silence  had  fallen  on  the  com- 
pany and  amid  the  clatter  of  knives  on  plates, 
and  the  confused  talk  at  distant  tables,  the  frou- 
frou of  a  dress,  and  the  creaking  of  the  floor 
under  the  brisk  steps  of  the  waiters,  some  one's 
quiet,  meek  voice  vi^as  heard: 

''But  I  do  love  negresses." 

Anton  Ivanovich  coughed  over  himself  the 
vodka  he  was  in  the  act  of  swallowing,  and  a 
waiter,  who  was  collecting  the  plates,  cast  a  glance 
of  indiscriminate  curiosity  from  under  his  brows. 
All  turned  with  surprise  to  the  speaker,  and  then 
for  the  first  time  took  notice  of  the  irregular  little 
face  with  its  red  moustache,  the  ends  of  which 
were  wet  with  vodka  and  soup,  of  the  two  dull, 
colourless  little  eyes,  and  of  the  carefully  brushed 
head  of  Semyon  Vasilyevich  Kotel'nikov.  For 
five  years  they  had  been  in  the  same  service  as 
Kotel'nikov,  every  day  they  had  said  "How  do 
you  do?"  and  "Good-bye"  to  him,  and  talked  to 
him  about  something  or  other;  on  the  20th  of 
every  month,  after  receiving  their  stipends,  they 
had  dined  at  the  same  restaurant  as  Kotel'nikov, 
as  they  were  doing  to-day;  and  now  for  the  first 
time  they  were  really  conscious  of  his  presence. 

71 


72  AN  ORIGINAL 

They  perceived  him,  and  were  astonished.  It 
seemed  that  Semyon  Vasilyevich  was  not  so  bad 
looking  after  all,  if  you  did  not  count  the  mous- 
tache, and  the  freckles  which  were  like  splashes  of 
mud  from  a  rubber  tyre,  that  he  was  decently 
well  dressed,  and  his  tall  white  collar,  though  a 
paper  one,  was  at  all  events  clean. 

Anton  Ivanovich,  head  of  the  office,  coughing 
and  still  red  with  the  exertion,  looked  at  the 
confused  Semyon  Vasilyevich  attentively,  with 
curiosity  in  his  prominent  eyes,  and  still  choking, 
asked  with  emphasis: 

"So  you,  Semyon,  ah! — I  beg  your  pardon,  I 
forget." 

"Semyon  Vasilyevich,"  Kotel'nikov  reminded 
him,  pronouncing  it,  not  "Vasilich,"  but  fully 
"Vasilyevich";  and  this  pronunciation  was 
pleasing  to  all  as  expressive  of  a  feeling  of  worth 
and  self-respect. 

"So  you,  Semyon  Vasilyevich — ^love  ne- 
gresses?" 

"Yes,  I  do,  indeed." 

And  his  voice,  although  rather  weak,  and, 
so  to  speak,  somewhat  wrinkled  like  a  shrivelled 
turnip,  was  nevertheless  pleasant.  Anton  Ivano- 
vich pursed  up  his  lower  lip  so  that  his  grey 
moustache  pressed  against  the  tip  of  his  red  pitted 
nose,  took  in  all  the  officials  with  his  rounded 
eyes,  and  after  an  unavoidable  pause  emitted  a 
fat  unctuous  laugh. 


AN  ORIGINAL  73 

"Ha,  ha,  ha!  He  loves  negresses!  Ha,  ha, 
ha!" 

And  all  laughed  in  a  friendly  manner,  even  the 
stout  dour  Polzikov,  who  as  a  rule  knew  not  how 
to  laugh,  gave  a  sickly  neigh:  "Hee,  hee!  hee!" 

Semyon  Vasilyevich  laughed  also,  with  a  low 
staccato  laugh,  like  a  parched  pea;  he  blushed 
with  pleasure,  but  at  the  same  time  was  rather 
afraid  that  some  unpleasantness  might  arise. 

''Are  you  really  serious?"  asked  Anton  Ivano- 
vich,  when  he  had  done  laughing. 

"Perfectly  serious,  sir.  In  them,  those  black 
women,  there  is  something  so  ardent,  or — so  to 
speak — exotic." 

"Exotic?" 

And  once  more  all  spluttered  with  laughter. 
But,  though  they  laughed,  they  considered  Sem- 
yon Vasilyevich  quite  a  clever  and  educated  man, 
since  he  knew  such  a  rare  word  as  "exotic." 
Then  they  began  to  argue  with  warmth  that  it  was 
impossible  for  any  one  to  love  a  negress :  they  were 
black  and  greasy,  they  had  such  impossible  thick 
lips,  and  smelt  too  strong  of  musk. 

"But  I  love  them,"  modestly  persisted  Semyon 
Vasilyevich. 

"Every  one  to  his  choice,"  said  Anton  Ivano- 
vich  with  decision;  "but  I  would  rather  fall  in 
love  with  a  nanny-goat  than  with  one  of  those 
blacks." 

But  all  were  pleased  that  among  them  in  the 


74  AN  ORIGINAL 

person  of  one  of  their  own  comrades  there  was  to 
be  found  such  an  original  person,  that  he  loved 
negresses,  and  to  honour  the  occasion  they  ordered 
another  half-dozen  of  beer,  and  began  to  look 
with  a  certain  contempt  on  the  neighbouring 
tables,  at  which  there  sat  no  original  people. 
They  began  to  talk  louder  and  with  more  freedom, 
and  Semyon  Vasilyevich  left  off  striking  matches 
for  his  cigarette,  but  waited  till  the  attendant  of- 
fered him  a  light.  When  the  beer  was  all  drunk 
up,  and  they  had  ordered  more,  the  stout  Polzikov 
looked  sternly  at  Semyon  Vasilyevich,  and  said 
reproachfully : 

''How  is  it,  Mr.  Kotel'nikov,  that  we  have  never 
got  beyond  the  'you'  stage?  Do  not  we  serve  in 
the  same  office  ?  We  must  drink  to  Comradeship, 
since  you  are  such  an  excellent  fellow." 

"Certainly,  I  shall  be  delighted,"  Semyon 
Vasilyevich  consented.  He  beamed  now  with  de- 
light that  at  last  they  recognized  and  appreciated 
him,  and  then  again  feared  somehow  that  they 
would  thrash  him;  at  all  events  he  kept  his  arm 
across  his  breast,  to  be  ready,  in  case  of  need,  to 
protect  his  face  and  well-brushed  hair.  After 
Polzikov  he  drank  to  Comradeship  with  Troitzky 
and  Novosyolov  and  the  rest,  and  kissed  them  so 
heartily  that  his  lips  became  swollen.  Anton 
Ivanovich  did  not  offer  to  drink  to  Comradeship, 
but  politely  remarked: 

"When  you  are  passing  our  way,  please  call. 
Although  you  love  negresses,  still  I  have  daugh- 


AN  ORIGINAL  75 

ters,  and  it  will  interest  them  to  see  you.  So  you 
are  really  in  earnest?" 

Semyon  Vasilyevich  bowed,  and  although  he 
was  a  bit  unsteady  from  the  amount  of  beer  he 
had  drunk,  still  all  remarked  that  his  manners 
were  good.  When  Anton  Ivanovich  went  away 
they  were  still  drinking,  and  afterwards  wxnt 
noisily,  the  whole  company,  on  to  the  Nevsky, 
where  they  gave  way  to  none,  but  made  all  give 
way  to  them.  Semyon  Vasilyevich  walked  in  the 
middle,  arm  in  arm  with  Troitzky  and  the  sombre 
Polzikov,  and  explained  to  them: 

''Nay,  friend  Kostya,  you  don't  understand  the 
matter.  In  negresses  there  is  something  peculiar, 
something,  so  to  speak,  exotic.^' 

"And  I  don't  want  to  understand!  They  are 
black — black — nothing  else." 

''Nay,  friend  Kostya,  this  is  a  matter  requir- 
ing taste.     Negresses  are " 

Until  that  day  Semyon  Vasilyevich  had  never 
even  thought  of  negresses,  and  could  not  more 
exactly  define  what  there  was  so  desirable  about 
them,  so  he  repeated : 

"My  friend,  they  are  ardent." 

"Now,  then,  Kostya,  w^hat  are  you  quarrelling 
about?"  angrily  asked  Troitzky,  as  he  tripped  up, 
and  sploshed  in  a  big  swapped  galoche.  "You 
are  a  wonderful  fellow  for  arguing;  you  never 
agree  with  any  one.  Of  course,  he  knows  why  he 
loves  negresses.     Drive  on,  Senya!  ^  love  away! 

1  Short  of   Semyon. — Tr. 


76  AN  ORIGINAL 

don't  listen  to  fools!  You're  a  brave  fellow; 
we'll  get  up  a  scandal  before  long.  Lord!  what 
a  devil  he  is!" 

''Black — black — ^nothing  more,"  Polzikov  mo- 
rosely insisted. 

"Nay,  Kostya,  you  don't  understand  the  mat- 
ter," Semyon  Vasilyevich  mildly  declared;  and 
so  they  went  on,  rolling  and  racketting,  quarrel- 
ling, and  jostling  one  another,  but  thoroughly 
contented. 

At  the  end  of  a  week  the  whole  Department 
knew  that  the  civil  servant,  Kotel'nikov,  was  very 
fond  of  negresses.  By  the  end  of  a  month  the 
porters  of  the  neighbouring  houses,  the  petition- 
ers, and  the  policeman  on  duty  at  the  corner,  knew 
it  too.  The  ladies  who  worked  the  typewriters 
took  to  looking  at  Semyon  Vasilyevich  from  the 
adjoining  rooms;  but  he  sat  quiet  and  modest, 
and  still  was  not  sure  whether  he  would  be 
praised  or  thrashed.  Already  he  had  been  at  an 
evening  party  at  Anton  Ivanovich's,  had  drunk 
tea  with  cherry  jam  upon  a  new  damask  table- 
cloth, and  had  explained  that  about  negresses 
there  was  something  exotic.  The  ladies  looked 
confused,  but  the  hostess's  daughter  Nastenka, 
who  had  read  novels,  blinked  her  shortsighted 
eyes,  and,  adjusting  her  curls,  asked: 

''But,  why?" 

And  all  were  very  much  pleased;  but  when  the 
interesting  guest  had  departed  they  spoke  of  him 
with  the  greatest  compassion,  and  Nastenka  pro- 


AN  ORIGINAL  77 

nounced  him  the  victim  of  a  pernicious  passion. 

Semyon  Vasilyevich  had  been  taken  with  Nas- 
tenka;  but  since  he  loved  only  negresses,  he  de- 
termined not  to  show  his  liking,  and  was  cold  and 
stand-offish,  though  strictly  polite.  And  all  the 
way  home  he  thought  of  negresses,  how  black  and 
greasy  and  objectionable  they  were,  and  at  the 
thought  of  kissing  one  of  them,  he  felt  a  sort  of 
heart-burn,  and  was  inclined  to  weep  quietly  and 
to  write  to  his  mother  in  the  country  to  come  to 
him.  But  in  the  night  he  overcame  this  attack  of 
pusillanimity,  and  when  he  appeared  at  the  office 
in  the  morning,  by  his  whole  appearance,  by  his 
red  tie,  and  by  the  mysterious  expression  of  his 
face,  it  w^as  abundantly  clear  that  this  man  was 
very  fond  indeed  of  negresses. 

Soon  after  this,  Anton  Ivanovich,  who  took  an 
interest  in  his  fate,  introduced  him  to  a  theatrical 
reporter ;  the  reporter  took  him  and  treated  him  at 
a  cafe-chant  ant,  where  he  presented  him  to  the 
Manager,  Monsieur  Jacques  Ducquelau. 

"Here  is  a  gentleman,"  said  the  reporter,  as  he 
brought  forward  the  modestly  bowing  Semyon 
Vasilyevich,  "here  is  a  gentleman  who  is  much 
enamoured  of  negresses;  no  one  but  negresses. 
He  is  an  extraordinary  original.  Give  him  en- 
couragement, Jacques  Ivanovich,  for  of  such  peo- 
ple be  not  encouraged,  who  should  be?  This, 
Jacques  Ivanovich,  is  a  public  matter." 

The  reporter  slapped  Semyon  Vasilyevich  pat- 
ronizingly on  his  narrow  back,  in  its  creaseless. 


78  AN  ORIGINAL 

tightly-fitting  coat,  and  the  Manager,  a  French- 
man, with  a  fierce  black  moustache,  cast  his  eyes 
up  to  the  sky,  as  though  looking  for  something 
there,  made  a  gesture  of  decision,  and  transfixing 
the  still  bowing  civil  servant  with  his  black  eyes, 
said: 

"Negresses!  Excellent!  I  have  here  at  pres- 
ent three  beautiful  negresses." 

Semyon  Vasilyevich  blanched  slightly,  but  M. 
Jacques  was  very  fond  of  his  own  establishment, 
and  took  no  notice.  The  reporter  requested: 
"Give  him  a  free  ticket,  Jacques  Ivanovich;  a 
season." 

From  that  evening  Semyon  Vasilyevich  began 
to  pay  court  to  a  negress,  Miss  Korraito,  the 
whites  of  whose  eyes  were  like  saucers,  with  pupils 
no  larger  than  sloes.  And  when  she  turned  on 
all  this  battery  and  made  eyes  at  him,  his  feet 
turned  cold,  and,  as  he  bowed  hastily,  his  well- 
pomatumed  head  glistened  under  the  electric  light, 
and  he  thought  with  grief  of  his  poor  mother  who 
lived  in  the  country. 

Of  Russian  Miss  Korraito  understood  not  a 
word,  but  happily  they  found  plenty  of  willing 
interpreters,  who  took  to  heart  the  interests  of  the 
young  couple,  and  accurately  transmitted  to  Sem- 
yon Vasilyevich  the  gushing  exclamations  of  the 
dusky  fair. 

"She  says:  'She  has  never  seen  such  a  kind, 
handsome  gentleman.'     Is  not  that  right,  Miss?" 

Miss  Korraito  would  incline  her  head  again 


AN  ORIGINAL  79 

and  again,  show  her  teeth,  which  were  as  wide 
as  the  keys  of  a  piano,  and  roll  her  saucers  round 
on  every  side.  And  Semyon  Vasilyevich  would 
unconsciously  incline  his  head  too,  and  mutter: 

"Tell  her,  please,  that  there  is  something  exotic 
about  negresses." 

And  all  were  satisfied.  When  Semyon  Vasilye- 
vich for  the  first  time  kissed  the  hand  of  the  ne- 
gress,  there  assembled  to  see  it,  not  only  all  the 
artistes,  but  many  of  the  spectators,  and  one  in 
particular,  an  old  merchant,  Bogdan  Kornyeich 
Seliverstov,  burst  into  tears  from  tenderness  and 
patriotic  feelings.  Then  they  drank  champagne. 
For  two  days  Semyon  Vasilyevich  suffered  from  a 
painful  palpitation  of  the  heart,  and  did  not  go 
to  the  office.  Several  times  he  began  a  letter, 
^'Dear  Mamma,"  but  he  was  too  weak  to  finish  it. 
When  he  went  back  to  the  office  they  invited  him 
to  the  private  room  of  his  Excellency.  Semyon 
Vasilyevich  smoothed  with  a  comb  his  hair,  which 
had  begun  to  stick  up  during  his  illness,  arranged 
the  dark  ends  of  his  moustache,  so  as  to  speak 
more  clearly,  and  collapsing  with  dread,  went 
in. 

''Look  here,  is  it  true,  what  they  tell  me,  that 

you "     His  Excellency  hesitated,  "is  it  true 

that  you  love  negresses?" 

"Quite  true,  your  Excellency." 

The  general  concentrated  his  gaze  on  his  poll, 
on  the  smooth  centre  of  which  two  thin  locks 
obstinately  stuck  up  and  trembled,  and  with  some 


8o  AN  ORIGINAL 

surprise,  but  at  the  same  time  with  approval, 
asked : 

''But  why  do  you  love  them?" 

"I  cannot  say,  your  Excellency,"  replied  Sem- 
yon  Vasilyevich,  whose  courage  had  evaporated. 

''What  do  you  mean  by  'I  can't  say'?  Who, 
then,  can  say?  But  don't  be  embarrassed,  my 
dear  sir.  I  like  my  subordinates  to  show  self-re- 
liance and  initiative  in  general,  provided,  of 
course,  they  do  not  exceed  certain  legal  bounds. 
Tell  me  candidly,  as  though  you  were  talking  to 
your  father,  why  do  you  love  negresses?" 

"There  is  in  them,  your  Excellency,  something 
exotic.'^ 

That  same  evening  at  the  general's  whist  table 
at  the  English  Club,  his  Excellency,  when  he  had 
dealt  the  cards  with  his  puffy  white  hands,  re- 
marked with  assumed  carelessness: 

"There's  in  my  office  an  official  who  is  terribly 
enamoured  of  negresses.  An  ordinary  clerk,  if 
you  please." 

The  other  three  generals  were  jealous:  each  of 
them  had  at  his  office  many  officials,  but  they 
were  the  most  ordinary,  colourless,  un-original 
people  imaginable,  of  whom  nothing  could  be 
said. 

The  choleric  Anaton  Petrovich  considered  long, 
scored  only  one  out  of  a  certain  four,  and  after 
the  next  deal  said: 

"I  too — I  have  a  subordinate,  whose  beard  is 
half  black  and  half  red." 


AN  ORIGINAL  81 

But  all  understood  that  the  victory  was  on  the 
side  of  his  Excellency;  the  subordinate  men- 
tioned was  in  no  respect  responsible  for  the  fact 
that  his  beard  was  half  black  and  half  red,  and 
probably  was  not  even  pleased  to  have  it  so; 
while  the  official  in  point,  independently  and  of 
his  own  free  will,  loved  negresses;  and  such  a 
predilection  undoubtedly  testified  to  his  origi- 
nality of  taste.  But  his  Excellency,  as  though  he 
remarked  nothing,  continued: 

"He  affirms  that  in  negresses  there  is  something 
exotic.'' 

The  existence  in  the  Second  Department  of  an 
extraordinary  original  obtained  for  it  the  most 
flattering  popularity  among  official  circles  in  the 
Capital,  and  begat,  as  is  always  the  case,  many 
unsuccessful  and  pitiful  imitators.  A  certain 
grey-haired  clerk  in  the  Sixth  Department,  with  a 
large  family,  who  had  sat  unremarked  at  his 
table  for  twenty-eight  years,  proclaimed  publicly 
that  he  could  bark  like  a  dog ;  and  when  they  only 
laughed  at  him,  and  in  all  the  rooms  began  to 
bark,  and  grunt,  and  neigh,  he  was  put  out  of 
countenance,  and  look  to  a  fortnight's  drink,  for- 
getting even  to  send  in  a  report  of  sickness,  as  he 
had  always  done  for  the  past  twenty-eight  years. 
Another  official,  a  youngish  man,  pretended  to 
fall  in  love  with  the  wife  of  the  Chinese  Ambas- 
sador, and  for  some  time  attracted  universal  ob- 
servation, and  even  s}Tiipathy.  But  experienced 
eyes  soon  distinguished  the  pitiful,  dishonest  pre- 

\9 

rO 


82  AN  ORIGINAL 

tence  from  the  true  originality,  and  the  failure 
was  contemptuously  consigned  to  the  abyss  of  his 
former  obscurity.  There  were  other  attempts  of 
the  same  kind,  and  among  the  officials  in  general 
there  was  remarked  this  year  a  peculiar  elation 
of  spirit,  and  a  long-hidden  desire  for  originality 
seized  the  youths  of  the  service  with  particular 
severity,  and  in  some  cases  even  led  to  tragic  con- 
sequences. Thus  one  clerk,  of  good  birth,  being 
unable  to  invent  anything  original,  had  the  impu- 
dence to  insult  his  superior,  and  was  promptly 
cashiered.  Even  against  Semyon  Vasilyevich 
there  rose  up  enemies,  who  openly  affirmed  that 
he  knew  nothing  whatever  about  negresses.  But 
as  an  answer  to  them  there  appeared  in  one  of  the 
dailies  an  interview  in  which  Semyon  Vasilyevich 
publicly  declared,  with  the  permission  of  his 
chief,  that  he  loved  negresses  because  there  was 
something  exotic  in  them.  And  the  star  of  Sem- 
yon Vasilyevich  shone  out  with  a  new,  undim- 
ming  light. 

At  Anton  Ivanovich's  evenings  he  was  now  the 
most  desirable  guest,  and  Nastenka  more  than 
once  wept  bitterly,  so  sorry  was  she  for  his  ruined 
youth ;  but  he  would  sit  proudly  at  the  very  middle 
of  the  table,  and  feeling  himself  the  cynosure  of 
all  eyes,  put  on  a  somewhat  melancholy,  but  at 
the  same  time  exotic  face.  And  to  all,  to  Anton 
Ivanovich  himself,  to  his  guests,  and  even  to  the 
deaf  old  woman  who  washed  up  the  dirty  things 
in  the  kitchen,  it  was  a  pleasure  to  know  that 


AN  ORIGINAL  83 

such  an  original  man  visited  their  house  quite 
without  ceremony.  But  Semyon  Vasilyevich 
went  home  and  wept  upon  his  pillow,  because  he 
loved  Nastenka  exceedingly,  and  hated  the 
damned  Miss  Korraito  with  all  his  soul. 

Before  Easter  there  was  a  report  that  Semyon 
Vasilyevich  was  going  to  marry  Miss  Korraito 
the  negress,  w^ho  for  that  reason  would  adopt 
Orthodoxy  and  leave  the  service  of  M.  Jacques 
Ducquelau,  and  that  his  Excellency  himself 
would  give  away  the  bride.  Fellow  civil-serv- 
ants, petitioners,  and  porters  congratulated  Sem- 
yon Vasilyevich;  and  he  bowed,  only  not  so  low 
as  before,  but  still  more  politely,  and  his  bald, 
polished  head  glistened  in  the  rays  of  the  spring 
sunshine. 

At  the  last  evening  party  given  by  Anton 
Ivanovich  before  the  wedding,  he  was  a  positive 
hero;  but  Nastenka  every  half-hour  or  so  ran  off 
to  her  own  rooms  to  cry,  and  then  so  powdered 
herself,  that  the  powder  was  scattered  from  her 
face  like  flour  from  a  millstone,  and  both  her 
neighbours  became  correspondingly  whitened. 
At  supper  all  congratulated  the  bridegroom  and 
drank  his  health;  but  Anton  Ivanovich,  as  he 
took  his  leave  of  his  guests,  said: 

"There  is  one  interesting  question,  my  friend, 
what  colour  will  your  children  be?" 

"Striped,"  glumly  said  Polzikov. 

"How  striped?  "  asked  the  guests  in  surprise. 

"Why,  in  this  way:  one  stripe  white,  and  one 


84  AN  ORIGINAL 

black,  then  another  white,  and  so  on,"  Polzikov 
explained  quite  despondently,  for  he  was  sorry 
with  all  his  heart  for  his  old  friend. 

"That's  impossible!"  excitedly  exclaimed  Sem- 
yon  Vasilyevich,  who  had  grown  pale  at  the 
thought.  But  Nastenka,  no  longer  able  to  con- 
tain herself,  burst  out  sobbing  and  ran  out  of  the 
room,  whereby  she  caused  universal  confusion. 

For  two  years  Semyon  Vasilyevich  was  the  hap- 
piest of  men,  and  all  rejoiced  when  they  looked  at 
him,  and  recalled  his  unusual  fate.  Once  he  was 
invited,  together  with  his  spouse,  to  his  Excel- 
lency's ;  and  on  the  birth  of  a  boy  he  received  con- 
siderable assistance  from  the  reserve  fund,  and 
soon  after  that  he  was  promoted,  out  of  his  turn, 
to  be  assistant  secretary  of  the  fourth  office  of  the 
department.  And  the  child  was  born  not  striped, 
but  only  slightly  grey,  or  rather  olive-coloured. 
Everywhere  Semyon  Vasilyevich  talked  of  his 
warm  love  for  his  wife  and  son;  but  he  was  never 
in  a  hurry  to  return  home,  and  when  he  did  get 
there  he  was  in  no  hurry  to  pull  the  bell-handle. 
But  when  there  met  him  on  the  threshold  those 
teeth  broad  as  piano-keys,  and  the  white  saucers 
rolled,  and  when  his  smoothly  brushed  head  was 
pressed  against  something  black,  greasy,  and 
smelling  like  musk,  he  felt  quite  faint  with  grief, 
and  thought  of  those  happy  people  who  had  white 
wives  and  white  children. 

"Dear!"  said  he  submissively,  and  on  the  in- 
sistence of  the  happy  mother  went  to  look  at  the 


AN  ORIGINAL  85 

baby.  He  hated  that  thick-lipped  baby  of  a 
greyish  colour  like  asphalt,  but  he  obediently 
nursed  it,  meditating  in  the  depths  of  his  soul  on 
the  possibility  of  dropping  it  suddenly  on  the 
floor. 

After  long  vacillation  and  hidden  sighs  he 
wrote  to  his  mother  in  the  country  about  his  mar- 
riage, and  to  his  surprise  received  from  her  a  most 
joyful  answer.  She  also  was  pleased  at  having 
such  an  original  for  her  son,  and  that  his  Excel- 
lency himself  had  given  away  the  bride.  But 
with  regard  to  the  colour,  and  other  disabilities  of 
the  bride,  she  expressed  herself  thus: 

^'Let  her  face  be  that  of  a  sheep,  if  only  her  soul 
be  human." 

At  the  end  of  two  years  Semyon  Vasilyevich 
died  of  t}TDhus  fever.  Before  the  end  he  sent  for 
the  parish  priest,  who  looked  with  curiosity  on  the 
quondam  Miss  Korraito,  stroked  his  full  beard, 
and  said  meaningly,  ''N  .  .  .  y  .  .  .  es! "  But 
it  was  evident  that  he  respected  Semyon  Vasilye- 
vich for  his  originality,  although  he  looked  on  it 
as  sinful. 

When  his  reverence  stooped  down  to  the  dying 
man,  the  latter  gathered  together  the  remnants  of 
his  strength,  and  opened  his  mouth  wide  to  cry: 

"I  hate  that  black  devil!" 

But  he  recalled  his  Excellency,  and  the  help 
from  the  reserve  fund,  he  recalled  the  kindly 
Anton  Ivanovich,  and  Nastenka,  and  looking  at 
the  black  weeping  countenance,  said  softly: 


86  AN  ORIGINAL 

"Father,  I  love  negresses  very  much.  In  them 
there  is  something  exotic." 

With  his  last  efforts  he  gave  to  his  emaciated 
face  the  semblance  of  a  happy  smile,  and  expired 
vi^ith  it  on  his  lips. 

And  the  earth  received  him  without  emotion, 
not  asking  whether  he  loved  negresses  or  no, 
brought  his  body  to  corruption,  mingled  his  bones 
with  those  of  other  dead  people,  and  annihilated 
every  trace  of  the  white  paper-collar. 

But  the  Second  Department  long  cherished  the 
memory  of  Semyon  Vasilyevich,  and  when  the 
waiting  petitioners  began  to  grow  weary,  the 
porter  would  take  them  to  his  room  to  smoke,  and 
would  tell  them  tales  of  the  wonderful  civil- 
servant  who  was  so  awfully  fond  of  negresses. 
And  all,  narrator  and  listeners,  were  pleased. 


PETKA  AT  THE  BUNGALOW 

Osip  Abramovich,  the  barber,  arranged  a 
dirty  sheeting  on  his  customer's  chest,  and  tuck- 
ing it  into  his  collar,  shouted  abruptly  in  a  sharp 
tone,  ''Boy!  water!" 

The  customer,  examining  his  face  in  the  glass 
with  that  sharpened  intentness  and  interest  which 
is  exhibited  only  at  the  barber's,  observed  that 
another  pimple  had  appeared  on  his  chin,  and 
turning  his  eyes  away  in  dissatisfaction  they  fell 
straight  on  a  thin  little  hand,  which  stretched  out 
from  somewhere  at  the  side,  and  put  a  tin  of  hot 
water  down  on  the  ledge  below  the  looking-glass. 
When  he  raised  his  eyes  still  higher,  they  caught 
the  strange  and  distorted  looking  reflection  of  the 
barber,  and  he  noticed  the  sharp  threatening 
glance  which  he  was  casting  down  on  the  head 
of  some  one,  and  the  silent  movements  of  his  lips, 
caused  by  an  inaudible  but  expressive  whisper. 
If  the  master  himself  was  not  doing  the  shaving 
but  one  of  the  assistants,  Prokopy  or  Mikhailo, 
then  the  whisper  would  become  loud,  and  take 
the  form  of  a  vague  threat: 

''Just  you  wait!" 

This  meant  that  the  boy  was  not  quick  enough 
with  the  water,  and  that  punishment  awaited  him. 

87 


88       PETKA  AT  THE  BUNGALOW 

^^Serve  'm  right  too,"  thought  the  customer,  bend- 
ing his  head  down  sideways,  and  contemplating 
the  great  moist  hand  by  the  side  of  his  nose,  three 
fingers  of  which  were  spread  out,  while  the  fore- 
finger and  thumb,  all  sticky  and  smelly,  gently 
touched  cheek  and  chin  as  the  blunt  razor,  with  a 
disagreeable  grating  noise,  took  off  the  lather,  and 
with  it  the  stiff  bristles  of  his  beard. 

At  this  barber's  shop,  permeated  with  the  op- 
pressive smell  of  cheap  scents,  full  of  tiresome 
flies  and  dirt,  the  customers  were  not  very  exact- 
ing. They  consisted  of  hall-porters,  overseers, 
and  sometimes  minor  officials,  or  workmen,  and 
often  coarsely  handsome  but  suspicious-looking 
fellows  Vv'ith  ruddy  cheeks,  slender  moustaches, 
and  insolent  oleaginous  eyes. 

Close  by  was  a  quarter  full  of  houses  of  cheap 
debauchery.  They  lorded  it  over  the  whole 
neighbourhood,  and  gave  to  it  a  special  character 
of  something  dirty,  disorderly  and  disquieting. 

The  boy,  who  was  called  out  to  most  frequently, 
was  named  Petka,  and  was  the  smallest  of  all  who 
served  in  the  establishment.  The  other  boy 
Nikolka  was  his  elder  by  three  years,  and  would 
soon  develop  into  an  assistant.  Already  when  a 
more  than  ordinarily  humble  customer  looked  in, 
and  the  assistants  in  the  absence  of  the  master 
were  too  lazy  to  work,  they  w^ould  set  Nikolka  to 
cut  his  hair,  and  laugh  when  he  had  to  raise  him- 
self on  tiptoe  to  see  the  back  hair  of  some  fat 
dvornik.     Sometimes  the  customer  would  be  of- 


PETKA  AT  THE  BUNGALOW       89 

fended  that  his  hair  was  badly  cut  and  utter  a  loud 
complaint,  and  then  the  assistants  would  scold 
Nikolka,  not  seriously,  but  only  to  satisfy  the 
cropped  lout.  But  such  cases  were  not  of  fre- 
quent occurrence,  and  Nikolka  gave  himself  the 
airs  of  a  man;  he  smoked  cigarettes,  spat  through 
his  teeth,  used  bad  language,  and  even  boasted  to 
Petka  that  he  drank  vodka;  but  there  he  probably 
lied.  In  company  with  the  assistants  he  would 
run  to  the  neighbouring  street  to  look  on  at  a 
coarse  fight,  and  when  he  came  back  laughing 
with  delight,  Osip  Abramovich  would  give  him 
a  couple  of  smacks,  one  on  each  cheek. 

Petka  was  only  ten  years  old.  He  did  not 
smoke,  or  drink  vodka,  or  swear,  though  he  knew 
plenty  of  bad  words,  and  in  all  these  respects  he 
envied  his  companion.  When  there  were  no  cus- 
tomers, and  Prokopy,  who  usually  had  spent  a 
sleepless  night  somewhere  or  other,  and  in  the 
daytime  would  drowsily  stumble  about  and  throw 
himself  into  the  dark  corner  behind  the  partition, 
and  Mikhailo  was  reading  the  Police  News,  and 
amongst  the  accounts  of  thefts  and  robberies  was 
looking  out  for  the  name  of  some  regular  cus- 
tomer, Petka  and  Nikolka  would  chat  together. 
The  latter  was  kinder  when  the  two  were  alone 
together,  and  used  to  explain  to  the  younger  the 
meaning  of  the  terms  used  to  describe  the  various 
styles  of  hair-cutting. 

Sometimes  they  sat  at  the  window,  by  the  side 
of  a  half-length  figure  of  a  female  in  wax  with 


90       PETKA  AT  THE  BUNGALOW 

pink  cheeks,  staring  glass  eyes,  and  straight 
sparse  eyelashes,  and  looked  out  on  the  boulevard, 
where  life  had  been  stirring  since  the  early  morn- 
ing. The  trees  of  the  boulevard,  powdered  with 
dust,  drooped  motionless  under  the  merciless 
burning  rays  of  the  sun,  and  afforded  an  equally 
grey,  unrefreshing  shade.  On  all  the  benches 
were  seated  men  and  women  in  dirty,  uncouth  at- 
tire, without  kerchiefs  or  hats,  just  as  though  they 
lived  there  and  had  no  other  home.  Whether  the 
faces  were  indifferent,  malignant,  or  dissolute,  on 
all  alike  was  impressed  the  stamp  of  utter  weari- 
ness and  contempt  of  their  surroundings.  Oft- 
times  a  frowsy  head  would  nod  helplessly  on  a 
shoulder,  and  the  body  would  try  to  stretch  itself 
out  to  sleep  like  a  third-class  passenger  after  an 
unbroken  journey  of  one  thousand  versts,  but 
there  was  nowhere  to  lie  down.  The  park-keeper, 
in  a  bright  blune  uniform  with  a  cane  in  his  hand, 
walked  up  and  down  the  pathways,  looking  out 
that  no  one  lay  down  on  the  benches,  or  threw 
himself  upon  the  grass,  which,  though  parched 
by  the  sun,  was  still  so  soft,  so  cool.  The  women, 
for  the  most  part  more  neatly  dressed,  and  even 
with  a  hint  at  fashion,  were  seemingly  all  of  one 
type  of  countenance  and  of  one  age;  although 
here  and  there  might  be  found  some  old,  and 
others  quite  young,  almost  children.  All  of  these 
talked  with  hoarse,  harsh  voices;  and  scolded, 
embracing  the  men  as  simply  as  though  they  were 
alone  on  the  boulevard.     Sometimes  they  would 


PETKA  AT  THE  BUNGALOW        91 

take  a  snack  and  a  drop  of  vodka.  It  might  hap- 
pen that  a  drunken  man  would  beat  an  equally 
drunken  woman.  She  would  fall  down,  and  get 
up  again,  and  fall  down  again,  but  no  one  would 
take  her  part.  Only  the  faces  of  the  crowd  as 
they  gathered  round  the  couple  would  light  up 
with  some  intelligence  and  animation,  and  wear  a 
broader  grin.  But  when  the  blue-coated  keeper 
drew  near,  they  would  listlessly  disperse  to  their 
former  places.  Only  the  ill-used  woman  would 
keep  on  weeping,  uttering  meaningless  oaths,  with 
her  rumpled  hair  covered  with  sand,  and  her  semi- 
made  bust  looking  dirty  and  yellow  in  the  morn- 
ing light,  cynically  and  piteously  exposed.  They 
would  put  her  on  the  bottom  of  a  cab  and  drive 
her  off  with  her  head  hanging  down,  and  swaying, 
as  if  she  were  dead. 

Nikolka  knew  several  of  the  men  and  women 
by  name,  and  told  Petka  nasty  stories  about  them, 
and  laughed  showing  his  sharp  teeth.  And  Petka 
admired  his  knowledge  and  daring,  and  thought 
that  some  day  he  would  be  like  him.  But  mean- 
while he  wanted  to  be  somewhere  else.  Wanted 
badly! 

Petka's  days  dragged  on  wonderfully  monoto- 
nously, as  like  to  one  another  as  two  brothers. 
Summer  and  winter  alike  he  saw  the  same  mir- 
rors, one  of  which  was  cracked,  and  another  was 
contorted  and  amusing.  On  the  stained  wall 
hung  one  and  the  same  picture,  representing  two 
half-dressed  women  on  the  sea-shore,  the  only 


92        PETKA  AT  THE  BUNGALOW 

difference  being  that  their  pink  bodies  became 
more  spotted  with  fly  dirt,  and  that  the  black 
patch  of  soot  became  larger  above  the  place  where 
the  common  kerosene  lamp  gleamed  all  the  whole 
winter's  day.  And  morning,  evening,  and  the 
v/hole  livelong  day,  there  hung  over  Petka  the  one 
and  the  same  abrupt  cry,  ''Boy,  water!"  and  he 
was  always  bringing  it — always.  There  were  no 
holidays.  On  Sundays,  when  the  windows  of  the 
stores  and  shops  ceased  to  illuminate  the  street, 
those  of  the  hair-dresser's  till  late  at  night  cast  a 
bright  sheaf  of  light  upon  the  pavement,  and  the 
passer-by  might  observe  a  little  thin  figure  hud- 
dled upon  his  seat  in  the  corner,  and  immersed  in 
something  between  thought  and  a  heavy  slumber. 
Petka  slept  a  great  deal,  but  still  for  some  reason 
or  other  he  was  always  wanting  to  sleep,  and  it 
often  seemed  to  him  that  all  around  him  was  not 
real,  but  a  very  unpleasant  dream.  Ofttimes  he 
would  spill  the  water,  or  fail  to  hear  the  sharp 
call,  ''Boy,  water!"  He  grew  thinner  and  thin- 
ner, and  unsightly  scabs  came  out  on  his  closely- 
cropped  head.  Even  the  not  too  fastidious  cus- 
tomers looked  with  aversion  on  this  thin,  freckled 
boy,  whose  eyes  were  always  sleepy,  his  mouth 
half-open,  and  his  hands  and  neck  ingrained  with 
dirt.  Round  his  eyes  and  under  his  nose  faint 
lines  were  forming  as  though  traced  by  a  sharp 
needle,  and  they  made  him  look  like  an  aged 
dwarf. 

Petka  did  not  know  whether  he  was  happy  or 


PETK.\  AT  THE  BUNGALOW        93 

unhappy,  but  he  did  want  to  go  to  some  other 
place ;  but  where,  or  what,  that  place  was  he  could 
not  have  told  you.  When  his  mother,  the  cook, 
Nadejda,  paid  him  a  visit,  he  would  eat  listlessly 
the  sweets  she  brought  him.  He  never,  never 
complained,  but  only  asked  to  be  taken  away  from 
the  place.  But  he  soon  forgot  his  request,  and 
would  coolly  take  leave  of  his  mother,  without 
asking  when  she  was  coming  again.  And 
Nadejda  thought  w4th  sorrow  that  she  had  only 
one  son — and  that  one  an  imbecile. 

How  long  he  had  lived  in  this  fashion,  Petka 
did  not  know,  when  suddenly  one  day  his  mother 
came  to  dinner,  had  a  talk  with  Osip  Abramo- 
vich,  and  told  Petka  that  he  was  to  be  allov;ed  to 
go  to  the  bungalow  at  Tzaritzyno,  where  her  mas- 
ter and  mistress  were  living.  At  first,  Petka 
could  not  realize  the  good  news,  but  after  a  time 
his  face  broke  out  into  faint  VNTinkles  of  soft 
laughter,  and  he  began  to  hasten  his  mother's  de- 
parture. But  for  decency's  sake  she  had  to  talk 
to  Osip  Abramovich  about  his  wife's  health,  while 
Petka  was  gently  dragging  her  by  the  hand  and 
shoving  her  towards  the  door.  He  had  no  idea 
what  a  bungalow  was  like,  but  he  supposed  that 
it  must  be  the  very  place  which  he  had  so  longed 
to  go  to.  With  simple  egotism  he  quite  forgot 
Nikolka,  who  was  standing  there  with  his  hands 
in  his  pockets  endeavouring  to  regard  Nadejda 
with  his  usual  insolence.  But  instead  of  inso- 
lence there  shone  in  his  eyes  a  profound  grief. 


94       PETKA  AT  THE  BUNGALOW 

He  had  no  mother,  and  at  that  moment  he  would 
not  have  objected  to  having  just  such  a  stout  one 
as  Nadejda.  The  fact  was  that  he  too  had  never 
been  at  a  bungalow. 

The  railway  station  with  its  many  voices,  with 
its  bustle  and  the  rumble  of  incoming  trains,  and 
the  whistles  of  the  engines,  some  thick  and  irate 
like  the  voice  of  Osip  Abramovich,  others  thin 
and  shrill  like  the  voice  of  his  sickly  wife,  with 
its  hurrying  passengers  who  kept  coming  and  go- 
ing in  a  continuous  stream,  as  if  there  were  no 
end  to  them — all  this  presented  itself  for  the  first 
time  to  the  puzzled  gaze  of  Petka,  and  filled  him 
with  a  feeling  of  excitement  and  impatience. 
Like  his  mother,  he  was  afraid  of  being  late, 
though  it  wanted  a  good  half-hour  to  the  time  of 
the  departure  of  the  suburban  train.  But  when 
they  were  once  seated  in  the  carriage,  and  the 
train  had  started,  he  stuck  to  the  window,  and 
only  his  cropped  head  kept  turning  about  on  his 
thin  neck,  as  though  on  a  metal  spindle. 

Petka  had  been  born  and  bred  in  the  city,  and 
was  now  in  the  country  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life,  and  everything  there  was  to  him  strikingly 
new  and  strange;  that  you  could  see  so  far;  that 
the  world  looked  like  a  lawn;  and  that  the  sky 
of  this  new  world  was  so  wonderfully  bright  and 
far-stretching — just  as  if  you  were  looking  at  it 
from  the  roof  of  a  house!  Petka  looked  at  it 
from  his  own  side,  and  when  he  turned  to  his 
mother,   there  was  the   same   sky  shining  blue 


PETKA  AT  THE  BUNGALOW       95 

through  the  opposite  window,  and  on  its  surface 
were  flocking — like  little  angels — small,  merry 
white  flecks  of  clouds.  Now  Petka  would  turn 
back  to  his  own  window,  now  run  over  to  the 
other  side  of  the  carriage,  with  confidence  laying 
his  ill-washed  little  hands  on  the  shoulders  and 
knees  of  strangers,  who  answered  him  back  with  a 
smile.  But  one  gentleman  who  was  reading  a 
newspaper,  and  yawning  all  the  time,  either  from 
excessive  fatigue  or  from  ennui,  looked  askance  at 
the  boy  once  or  twice  in  not  too  friendly  a  man- 
ner, and  Nadejda  hastened  to  apologise: 

''It  is  his  first  journey  by  rail — and  he  is  in- 
terested." 

"  Humph,"  growled  the  gentleman,  and  buried 
himself  in  his  newspaper. 

Nadejda  would  very  much  have  liked  to  tell 
him,  how  that  Petka  had  lived  three  years  with  a 
barber,  who  had  promised  to  set  him  upon  his 
feet;  and  that  this  would  be  a  very  good  thing, 
since  she  was  a  lone  weak  woman,  with  no  other 
means  of  support  in  case  of  sickness  or  when  she 
became  old.  But  the  expression  of  his  face  was 
so  uninviting,  that  she  kept  all  this  to  herself. 

To  the  right  of  the  railway  there  was  a  broad 
stretch  of  undulating  plain,  dark  green  with  the 
continual  moisture,  and  on  its  edge  there  stood 
grey  little  houses,  just  like  toys,  and  upon  a  high 
green  hill,  at  the  foot  of  which  flowed  a  silvery 
river,  was  perched  a  similarly  toy-like  white 
church.     When  the  train,  with  a  noisy  metallic 


96       PETKA  AT  THE  BUNGALOW 

clanking,  which  suddenly  became  intensified, 
rushed  on  to  a  bridge,  and  seemed  to  hang  sus- 
pended in  the  air  over  the  mirror-like  surface  of  a 
river,  Petka  gave  a  little  shiver  of  fright  and  sur- 
prise, and  started  back  from  the  window;  but  im- 
mediately turned  to  it  again,  for  fear  of  losing  a 
single  detail  of  the  journey.  His  eyes  had  long 
ceased  to  look  sleepy,  and  the  lines  had  disap- 
peared from  his  face.  It  was  as  though  some  one 
had  passed  a  hot  flat-iron  over  his  face,  smoothing 
out  the  wrinkles,  and  leaving  the  surface  white 
and  shining. 

For  the  first  two  days  of  his  sojourn  at  the 
bungalow  the  wealth  and  force  of  the  new  impres- 
sions which  inundated  him  from  above  and  from 
below  confused  his  timid  little  soul.  In  contra- 
distinction to  the  savages  of  a  former  age,  who 
felt  lost  on  coming  into  a  city  from  the  wilderness, 
this  modern  savage,  who  had  been  snatched  away 
from  the  stony  embrace  of  the  massive  city,  felt 
weak  and  impotent  in  the  face  of  nature.  Here 
everything  was  to  him  living,  sentient,  and  pos- 
sessed of  conscious  will.  He  was  afraid  of  the 
forest,  which  gently  rustled  over  his  head,  and 
was  so  dark,  so  passive,  so  terrible  in  its  immen- 
sity. But  the  bright  green  joyful  meadows, 
which  seemed  to  be  singing  with  all  their  bright 
flowers,  he  loved,  and  wished  to  fondle  them  as  a 
sister;  and  the  dark  blue  sky  called  him  to  itself, 
and  laughed  like  a  mother.  Petka  would  become 
agitated,  shudder,  and  grow  pale,  would  smile  at 


i 


PETKA  AT  THE  BUNGALOW       97 

something,  and  slowly,  like  an  old  man,  walk 
along  the  outskirts  of  the  forest,  and  on  the 
wooded  shore  of  the  pond.  There,  weary  and  out 
of  breath,  he  would  fling  himself  down  on  the 
thick  damp  grass,  and  sink  into  it,  only  his  little 
freckled  nose  appearing  above  the  green  surface. 
For  the  first  two  days  he  was  always  going  back  to 
his  mother,  and  nestling  up  to  her:  and  w^hen  the 
master  of  the  house  asked  him  whether  he  liked 
being  at  the  bungalow,  he  would  smile  in  con- 
fusion and  answer: 

^^Very  much!" 

And  then  he  would  go  off  again  to  the  threaten- 
ing forest,  and  the  still  water,  and  it  was  as 
though  he  were  questioning  them. 

But  after  two  days  Petka  had  arrived  at  a 
complete  understanding  with  Nature.  This  was 
brought  about  by  the  co-operation  of  a  schoolboy 
named  Mitya  from  old  Tzaritzyno.  The  school- 
boy had  a  swarthy  countenance,  the  colour  of  a 
second-class  carriage.  His  hair  stood  erect  on 
the  crown  of  his  head,  and  was  quite  white,  so 
bleached  was  it  by  the  sun.  He  was  fishing  in  the 
pond,  when  Petka  caught  sight  of  him  and  un- 
ceremoniously entered  into  conversation  with 
him.  They  came  to  terms  with  wonderful 
promptitude;  he  allowed  Petka  to  hold  one  of 
the  rods,  and  afterwards  took  him  some  dis- 
tance off  to  bathe.  Petka  was  very  much  afraid 
of  going  into  the  water,  but  when  once  in,  he 
did  not  wish  to  come  out  again,  but  pretended  to 


98       PETKA  AT  THE  BUNGALOW 

swim,  putting  his  forehead  and  nose  above  the 
water.  Then  he  got  a  great  gulp  of  water  in 
his  mouth,  and  beat  the  water  with  his  hands 
and  made  a  great  splashing.  At  this  moment 
he  was  very  like  a  puppy,  that  had  for  the  first 
time  fallen  into  the  water.  When  Petka  dressed 
himself  he  was  as  blue  as  a  corpse  with  the  cold, 
and  as  he  talked  his  teeth  chattered.  At  the 
proposal  of  Mitya,  who  was  of  inexhaustible  re- 
source, they  next  explored  the  ruins  of  a  mansion. 
They  clambered  upon  the  roof  overgrown  with 
shoots,  and  wandered  between  the  broken-down 
walls  of  the  great  building.  They  did  enjoy 
themselves  there!  All  about  heaps  of  stones 
were  piled  up,  on  which  they  climbed  with  diffi- 
culty, and  between  which  grew  young  rowan  and 
birch  trees.  It  was  still  as  death,  and  it  seemed 
as  though  some  one  suddenly  jumped  out  from 
a  corner,  or  that  some  horrible,  terrible  face  ap- 
peared through  the  aperture  left  by  a  broken 
window.  By  degrees  Petka  began  to  feel  quite 
at  home  at  the  bungalow,  and  he  forgot  that  there 
was  any  Osip  Abramovich  or  barber's  shop  in 
the  w^orld. 

^'Just  look  how  he  is  putting  on  flesh!  He's 
a  regular  merchant! "  Nadejda  at  this  time  would 
exclaim  with  delight. 

She  was  stout  enough  herself  and  her  face 
shone  with  the  heat  of  the  kitchen  like  a  cop- 
per samovar.  She  attributed  his  improvement 
to  the  fact  that  she  gave  him  plenty  to  eat.     But 


PETKA  AT  THE  BUNGALOW       99 

in  reality  Petka  ate  very  little  indeed,  not  because 
he  did  not  care  for  his  food,  but  because  he  could 
scarcely  find  time  for  it.  If  only  it  had  been 
possible  to  bolt  his  food  without  mastication!  — 
but  one  must  masticate,  and  during  the  intervals 
swing  one's  feet,  since  Nadejda  ate  deuced  slowly, 
polishing  the  bones  and  wiping  her  fingers  on 
her  apron,  while  she  kept  up  a  perpetual  chatter. 
But  he  was  up  to  the  neck  in  business:  he  had 
to  bathe  four  times,  to  cut  a  fishing-rod  in  the 
hazel  coppice,  to  dig  for  worms — all  this  re- 
quired time.  Now  Petka  ran  about  bare-foot, 
and  that  was  a  thousand  times  pleasanter  than 
wearing  boots  with  thick  soles:  the  rustling 
ground  now  warmed,  now  cooled  his  feet  so  de- 
liciously.  He  had  even  discarded  his  second- 
hand school  jacket,  in  which  he  looked  like  a 
full-grown  master-barber,  and  thereby  became 
amazingly  rejuvenated.  He  put  it  on  only  in 
the  evening,  w^hen  he  w^nt  and  stood  on  the  dam 
to  w^atch  the  Master  and  Mistress  boating. 
Well-dressed  and  cheerful  they  would  laughingly 
take  their  seats  in  the  rocking  boat,  which  lei- 
surely ploughed  the  mirror-like  surface  of  the 
water  on  which  the  reflection  of  the  trees  swayed 
as  though  agitated  by  a  breeze. 

At  the  end  of  the  week  the  Master  brought 
from  the  city  a  letter  addressed  "to  Cook  Na- 
dejda." When  he  had  read  it  over  to  her  she 
began  to  cry,  and  smeared  her  face  all  over  with 
the  soot  which  was  on  her  apron.     From  the 


100     PETKA  AT  THE  BUNGALOW 

fragmentary  remarks  which  accompanied  this 
operation,  it  might  be  deduced  that  the  contents 
of  the  letter  affected  Petka.  This  took  place  in 
the  evening.  Petka  was  playing  athletic  sports 
by  himself  in  the  back  court,  and  puffing  out 
his  cheeks,  because  that  made  it  considerably 
easier  to  jump.  The  schoolboy  Mitya  had  taught 
him  this  stupid  but  interesting  occupation,  and 
now  Petka,  like  a  true  "sportsman,"  was  prac- 
tising alone.  The  master  came  out,  and  laying 
his  hand  on  his  shoulder,  said: 

"Well,  my  friend,  you  have  to  go!" 

Petka  smiled  in  confusion  and  said  nothing. 
"What  a  strange  lad,"  thought  the  master. 

"Yes,  have  to  go." 

Petka  smiled.  Nadejda  coming  up  with  tears 
in  her  eyes  repeated: 

"You  have  to  go,  sonny." 

"Where?"  said  Petka  in  surprise.  He  had 
forgotten  the  city;  and  the  other  place,  to  which 
he  had  always  so  wanted  to  go  away — was 
found. 

"To  your  master,  Osip  Abramovich." 

Still  Petka  failed  to  understand,  though  the 
matter  was  as  clear  as  daylight.  But  his  mouth 
felt  suddenly  dry,  and  his  tongue  moved  with 
difficulty  as  he  asked: 

"How  then  can  I  go  fishing  to-morrow? 
Look,  here  is  the  rod." 

"But  what  can  one  do?  He  wants  you.  Pro- 
kopy,  he  says,  is  ill,  and  has  been  taken  to  the 


PETKA  AT  THE  BUNGALOW      loi 

hospital.  He  says  he  has  not  enough  hands. 
Don't  cry!  See,  he'll  be  sure  to  let  you 
come  again.  He  is  kind  is  Osip  Abramo- 
vich." 

But  Petka  was  not  thinking  of  crying,  and 
still  did  not  understand.  On  one  side  there  was 
the  fact,  the  fishing-rod — on  the  other  the  phan- 
tom, Osip  Abramovich.  But  gradually  Petka's 
thoughts  began  to  clear  and  a  strange  metamor- 
phosis took  place:  Osip  Abramovich  became  the 
fact,  and  the  fishing-rod,  which  had  not  yet  had 
time  to  dry,  was  changed  into  the  phantom.  And 
then  Petka  surprised  his  mother,  and  distressed 
the  master  and  his  wife,  and  would  have  been 
surprised  himself  if  he  had  been  capable  of  self- 
analysis.  He  did  not  begin  to  cry,  as  town  chil- 
dren, thin  and  half-starved,  cry;  he  simply 
bawled  louder  than  the  strongest- voiced  man; 
and  began  to  roll  on  the  ground,  as  the  drunken 
women  rolled  on  the  boulevard.  He  clenched 
his  skinny  fists,  and  struck  his  mother's  hands 
and  the  ground,  in  fact  everything  he  came 
across,  feeling,  indeed,  the  pain  caused  by  the 
pebbles  and  sharp  stones,  but  striving,  as  it  were, 
to  increase  it. 

In  course  of  time  Petka  became  calm  again, 
and  the  master  said  to  his  wife,  who  was  standing 
before  the  glass  arranging  a  white  rose  in  her 
hair: 

"You  see  he  has  left  off.  Children's  grief  is 
not  long-lived." 


102     PETKA  AT  THE  BUNGALOW 

"All  the  same  I  am  very  sorry  for  the  poor 
little  boy." 

"Yes,  indeed!  they  live  under  terrible  condi- 
tions, but  there  are  people  who  are  still  worse 
off.     Are  you  ready?" 

And  they  went  off  to  Bigman's  Gardens,  where 
dances  had  been  arranged  for  the  evening,  and 
a  military  band  was  already  playing. 

The  next  day  Petka  started  for  Moscow  by 
the  7  a.m.  train.  Again  he  saw  the  green  fields, 
grey  with  the  night's  dew,  only  they  did  not  now 
run  in  the  same  direction  as  before,  but  in  the 
opposite.  The  second-hand  school  jacket  en- 
veloped his  thin  body,  and  from  the  opening  at 
the  neck  stuck  out  the  corner  of  a  white  paper 
collar.  Petka  did  not  turn  to  the  window,  in- 
deed, he  hardly  looked  at  it,  but  sat  so  still  and 
modest,  with  his  little  hands  primly  folded  upon 
his  knees.  His  eyes  were  sleepy  and  apathetic, 
and  fine  wrinkles,  as  in  the  case  of  an  old  man, 
gathered  about  his  eyes  and  under  his  nose. 
Suddenly  the  pillars  and  the  planks  of  the  plat- 
form flashed  before  the  window,  and  the  train 
stopped. 

They  pressed  through  the  hurrying  crowd,  and 
came  out  into  the  noisy  street;  and  the  great, 
greedy  city  callously  swallowed  up  its  little 
victim. 

"Put  away  the  fishing  tackle  for  me,"  said 
Petka,  when  his  mother  deposited  him  at  the  door 
of  the  barber's  shop. 


PETKA  AT  THE  BUNGALOW     103 

*'Trust  me  for  that,  sonny!  Maybe  you  will 
come  again." 

And  once  more  in  the  dirty,  stuffy  shop  was 
heard  the  sharp  call,  "Boy,  water!"  and  the  cus- 
tomer saw  a  small,  dirty  hand  thrust  out  to  the 
ledge  below  the  mirror,  and  heard  the  vague, 
threatening  whisper.  "Just  you  wait  a  bit!" 
This  meant  that  the  sleepy  boy  had  either  spilled 
the  water,  or  had  bungled  the  orders.  But  at 
nights  from  the  place  where  Nikolka  and  Petka 
lay  side  by  side,  a  little  low  and  agitated  voice 
might  be  heard  telling  about  the  bungalow,  and 
speaking  of  what  is  not,  and  what  no  one  has 
ever  seen  or  heard.  And  when  silence  super- 
vened, and  only  the  irregular  breathing  of  the 
children  was  audible,  another  voice,  unusually 
deep  and  strong  for  a  child,  would  exclaim: 

"The  devils!     May  they  bu'st!" 

"Who  are  devils?" 

"Why,  the  whole  blooming  lot,  of  course!" 

A  string  of  cars  passed  by,  and  drowned  the 
boys'  voices  with  its  noisy  rumbling;  and  then 
that  distant  cry  of  complaint  was  heard,  which 
had  for  long  been  borne  in  from  the  boulevard, 
where  a  drunken  man  was  beating  an  equally 
drunken  woman. 


SILENCE 

I 

On  a  moonlight  night  in  May,  when  the  night- 
ingales were  singing,  his  wife  came  to  Father 
Ignaty  who  was  sitting  in  his  study.  Her  face 
was  expressive  of  suffering,  and  the  small  lamp 
trembled  in  her  hand.  She  came  up  to  her  hus- 
band, touched  him  on  the  shoulder,  and  said 
sobbing : 

''Father,  let  us  go  to  Verochka!" 

Without  turning  his  head.  Father  Ignaty 
frowned  at  his  wife  over  his  spectacles,  and  looked 
long  and  fixedly,  until  she  made  a  motion  of 
discomfort  with  her  free  hand,  and  sat  down  on 
a  low  divan. 

''How  pitiless  you  both  are,"  said  she  slowly 
and  with  strong  emphasis  on  the  word  "both," 
and  her  kindly  puffed  face  was  contorted  with 
a  look  of  pain  and  hardness,  as  though  she  wished 
to  express  by  her  looks  how  hard  people  were — 
her  husband  and  her  daughter. 

Father   Ignaty  gave  a  laugh   and   stood  up. 

Closing  his  book,  he  took  off  his  spectacles,  put 

them  into  their  case,  and  fell  into  a  brown  study. 

His  big  black  beard,  shot  with  silver  threads, 

104 


SILENCE  105 

lay  in  a  graceful  curve  upon  his  chest,  and  rose 
and  fell  slowly  under  his  deep  breathing. 

''Well,  then,  we  will  go!"  said  he. 

Olga  Stepanovna  rose  quickly,  and  asked  in 
a  timid,  ingratiating  voice: 

"Only  don't  scold  her,  father!  You  know 
w^hat  she  is." 

Vera's  room  was  in  a  belvedere  at  the  top  of 
the  house,  and  the  narrow  w^ooden  stairs  bent  and 
groaned  under  the  heavy  steps  of  Father  Ignaty. 
Tall  and  ponderous,  he  was  obliged  to  stoop  so 
as  not  to  hit  his  head  against  the  ceiling  above, 
and  he  frow^ned  fastidiously  when  his  wife's  w^hite 
jacket  touched  his  face.  He  knew  that  noth- 
ing would  come  of  their  conversation  with 
Vera. 

"What,  is  that  you?"  asked  Vera,  lifting  one 
bare  arm  to  her  eyes.  The  other  arm  lay  on  the 
top  of  the  w^hite  summer  counterpane,  from  which 
it  was  scarcely  distinguishable,  so  white,  trans- 
parent and  cold  was  it. 

"Verochka!"  the  mother  began,  but  gave  a 
sob  and  w^as  silent. 

"Vera!"  said  the  father,  endeavouring  to 
soften  his  dry,  hard  voice.  "Vera,  tell  us  what 
is  the  matter  w^ith  you?" 

Vera  was  silent. 

"Vera,  are  your  mother  and  I  undeserving  of 
your  confidence?  Do  we  not  love  you?  Have 
you  any  one  nearer  to  you  than  ourselves? 
Speak  to  us  of  your  grief,  and  believe  me,  an 


io6  SILENCE 

old  and  experienced  man,  you  will  feel  the  bet- 
ter for  it.  And  so  shall  we.  Look  at  your  old 
mother,  how  she  is  suffering." 

^'Verochka !" 

''And  to  me "  his  voice  trembled,  as  though 

something  in  it  had  broken  in  two,  "and  to  me, 
is  it  easy,  think  you?     As  though  I  did  not  see 

that  you  were  devoured  by  some  grief ,  but 

what  is  it?  And  I,  your  father,  am  kept  in  igno- 
rance.    Is  it  right?" 

Vera  still  kept  silence.  Father  Ignaty  stroked 
his  beard  with  special  precaution,  as  though  he 
feared  that  his  fingers  would  involuntarily  be- 
gin to  tear  it,  and  continued: 

"Against  my  wishes  you  went  to  St.  Peters- 
burg— did  I  curse  you  for  your  disobedience? 
Or  did  I  refuse  you  money?  Or  do  you  say  I 
was  not  kind?  Well,  why  don't  you  speak? 
See,  the  good  your  St.  Petersburg  has  done 
you!" 

Father  Ignaty  ceased  speaking,  and  there  rose 
before  his  mind's  eye  something  big,  granite- 
built,  terrible,  full  of  unknown  dangers,  and  of 
strange  callous  people.  And  there  alone  and 
weak  was  his  Vera,  and  there  she  had  been 
ruined.  An  angry  hatred  of  that  terrible  in- 
comprehensible city  arose  in  Father  Ignaty's 
soul,  together  with  anger  towards  his  daughter, 
who  kept  silent,  so  obstinately  silent. 

"St.  Petersburg  has  nothing  to  do  with  it," 
said  Vera  crossly,  and  closed  her  eyes.     "But 


SILENCE  107 

there  is  nothing  the  matter  with  me.  You  had 
better  go  to  bed,  it's  late." 

''Verochka!"  groaned  her  mother.  "My  little 
daughter,  confide  in  me! " 

''Oh!  mamma!"  said  Vera,  impatiently  inter- 
rupting her. 

Father  Ignaty  sat  down  on  a  chair  and  began 
to  laugh. 

''Well  then,  nothing  is  the  matter  after  all?" 
he  asked  ironically. 

"Father,"  said  Vera,  in  a  sharp  voice,  raising 
herself  up  on  her  bed,  "you  know  that  I  love 
you  and  mamma.  But — I  do  feel  so  dull.  All 
this  will  pass  away.  Really,  you  had  better  go 
to  bed.  I  w^ant  to  sleep,  too.  To-morrow,  or 
sometime,  we  will  have  a  talk." 

Father  Ignaty  rose  abruptly,  so  that  his  chair 
bumped  against  the  wall,  and  took  his  wife's  arm. 

"Let's  go!" 

"Verochka!" 

"Let's  go — I  tell  you,"  cried  Father  Ignaty. 
"If  she  has  forgotten  God,  shall  we  too!  Why 
should  we!" 

He  drew  Olga  Stepanovna  away,  almost  by 
main  force,  and  as  they  were  descending  the 
stairs,  she,  dragging  her  steps  more  slowly,  said 
in  an  angry  whisper: 

"Ugh!  pope,  it's  you  who  have  made  her  so. 
It's  from  you  she  has  got  this  manner.  And 
you'll  have  to  answer  for  it.  Ah!  how  wretched 
I  am " 


io8  SILENCE 

And  she  began  to  cry,  and  kept  blinking  her 
eyes,  so  that  she  could  not  see  the  steps,  and  let- 
ting her  feet  go  down  as  it  were  into  an  abyss 
below  into  which  she  wished  to  precipitate  her- 
self. 

From  that  day  forward  Father  Ignaty  ceased 
to  talk  to  his  daughter,  and  she  seemed  not  to 
notice  the  change.  As  before,  she  would  now  lie 
in  her  room,  now  go  about,  frequently  wiping 
her  eyes  with  the  palms  of  her  hands,  as  though 
they  were  obstructed.  And  oppressed  by  the  si- 
lence of  these  two  people,  the  pope's  wife,  who 
was  fond  of  jokes  and  laughter,  became  lost  and 
timid,  hardly  knowing  what  to  say  or  do. 

Sometimes  Vera  went  out  for  a  walk.  About 
a  week  after  the  conversation  related  above,  she 
went  out  in  the  evening  as  usual.  They  never 
saw  her  again  alive,  for  that  evening  she  threw 
herself  under  a  train,  which  cut  her  in  two. 

Father  Ignaty  buried  her  himself.  His  wife 
was  not  present  at  the  church,  because  at  the 
news  of  Vera's  death  she  had  had  a  stroke.  She 
had  lost  the  use  of  her  feet  and  hands  and  tongue, 
and  lay  motionless  in  a  semi-darkened  room, 
while  close  by  her  the  bells  tolled  in  the  belfry. 
She  heard  them  all  coming  out  of  church,  heard 
the  choristers  singing  before  their  house,  and 
tried  to  raise  her  hand  to  cross  herself,  but  the 
hand  would  not  obey  her  will.  She  wished  to 
say:  ''Good-bye,  Vera,"  but  her  tongue  lay  inert 
in  her  mouth,  swollen  and  heavy.     She  lay  so 


SILENCE  109 

still  that  any  one  who  saw  her  would  have 
thought  that  she  was  resting,  or  asleep.  Only — 
her  eyes  were  open. 

There  were  many  people  in  the  church  at  the 
funeral,  both  acquaintances  of  Father  Ignaty's 
and  strangers.  All  present  compassionated 
Vera,  who  had  died  such  a  terrible  death,  and 
they  tried  in  Father  Ignaty's  movements  and 
voice  to  find  signs  of  profound  grief.  They 
were  not  fond  of  Father  Ignaty,  because  he  was 
rough  and  haughty  in  his  manners,  harsh  and 
unforgiving  with  his  penitents,  while,  himself 
jealous  and  greedy,  he  availed  himself  of  every 
chance  to  take  more  than  his  dues  from  a  parish- 
ioner. They  all  wished  to  see  him  suffering, 
broken-down;  they  wished  to  see  him  acknowl- 
edge that  he  was  doubly  guilty  of  his  daughter's 
death — as  a  harsh  father,  and  as  a  bad  priest, 
who  could  not  protect  his  owti  flesh  and  blood 
from  sin.  So  they  all  watched  him  with  curios- 
ity, but  he,  feeling  their  eyes  directed  on  his  broad 
pow^erful  back,  endeavoured  to  straighten  it,  and 
thought  not  so  much  of  his  dead  daughter  as  of 
not  compromising  his  dignity. 

''A  well-seasoned  pope,"  Karzenov  the  car- 
penter, to  whom  he  still  owed  money  for  some 
frames,  said  with  a  nod  in  his  direction. 

And  so,  firm  and  upright,  Father  Ignaty  went 
to  the  cemetery,  and  came  back  the  same.  And 
not  till  he  reached  the  door  of  his  wife's  room 
did  his  back  bend  a  little;  but  that  might  have 


no  SILENCE 

been  because  the  door  was  not  high  enough  for 
his  stature.  Coming  in  from  the  light  he  could 
only  with  difficulty  distinguish  his  wife's  face, 
and  when  he  succeeded  in  so  doing,  he  perceived 
that  it  was  perfectly  still  and  that  there  were  no 
tears  in  her  eyes.  In  them  was  there  neither 
anger  nor  grief;  they  were  dumb,  and  painfully, 
obstinately  silent,  as  was  also  her  whole  obese 
feeble  body  that  was  pressed  against  the  bed-rail. 

"Well,  what?  How  are  you  feeling?"  Father 
Ignaty  inquired. 

But  her  lips  were  dumb,  and  her  eyes  were 
silent.  Father  Ignaty  laid  his  hand  on  her  fore- 
head; it  was  cold  and  damp,  and  Olga  Stepa- 
novna  gave  no  sign  whatever  that  she  had  felt 
his  touch.  And  when  he  removed  his  hands 
from  her  forehead,  two  deep,  grey  eyes  looked 
at  him  without  blinking;  they  seemed  almost 
black  on  account  of  the  dilation  of  the  pupils, 
and  in  them  was  neither  grief  nor  anger. 

"Well,  I  will  go  to  my  own  room,"  said  Father 
Ignaty,  who  had  turned  cold  and  frightened. 

He  went  through  the  guest-chamber,  where 
everything  was  clean  and  orderly  as  ever,  and  the 
high-backed  chairs  stood  swathed  in  white  cov- 
ers, like  corpses  in  their  shrouds.  At  one  of  the 
windows  hung  a  wire  cage,  but  it  was  empty  and 
the  door  was  open. 

"Nastasya!"  Father  Ignaty  called,  and  his 
voice  seemed  to  him  rough,  and  he  felt  awkward, 
that  he  had  called  so  loud  in  those  quiet  rooms, 


J 


SILENCE  1 1 1 

so  soon  after  the  funeral  of  their  daughter. 
'"Nastasya,"  he  called  more  gently,  ''where's  the 
canary?" 

The  cook,  who  had  cried  so  much  that  her 
nose  was  swollen  and  become  as  red  as  a  beet, 
answered  rudely: 

"Don't  know.     It  flew  away." 

"Why  did  you  let  it  go?'  said  Father  Ignaty, 
angrily  knitting  his  brows. 

Nastasya  burst  out  crying,  and  wiping  her  eyes 
with  the  ends  of  a  print  handkerchief  she  wore 
over  her  head,  said  through  her  tears: 

"The  dear  little  soul  of  the  young  mistress. 
How  could  I  keep  it?" 

And  it  seemed  even  to  Father  Ignaty  that  the 
happy  little  yellow  canary,  which  used  to  sing 
always  with  its  head  thrown  back,  was  really 
the  soul  of  Vera,  and  that  if  it  had  not  flown 
away  it  would  have  been  impossible  to  say  that 
Vera  was  dead.  And  he  became  still  more  angry 
with  the  cook,  and  shouted: 

"Get  along!"  and  when  Nastasya  did  not  at 
once  make  for  the  door,  added  "Fool!" 


II 

From  the  day  of  the  funeral  silence  reigned 
in  the  little  house.  It  was  not  stillness,  for  that 
is  the  mere  absence  of  noise,  but  it  was  silence 
which  means  that  those  who  kept  silence  could. 


112  SILENCE 

apparently,  have  spoken  if  they  had  pleased. 
So  thought  Father  Ignaty  when,  entering  his 
wife's  chamber,  he  would  meet  an  obstinate 
glance,  so  heavy  that  it  was  as  though  the  whole 
air  were  turned  to  lead,  and  was  pressing  on  his 
head  and  back.  So  he  thought  when  he  exam- 
ined his  daughter's  music,  on  which  her  very 
voice  was  impressed;  her  books,  and  her  por- 
trait, a  large  one  painted  in  colours  which  she 
had  brought  with  her  from  St.  Petersburg.  In 
examining  her  portrait  a  certain  order  was 
evolved. 

First  he  would  look  at  her  neck,  on  which 
the  light  was  thrown  in  the  portrait,  and  would 
imagine  to  himself  a  scratch  on  it,  such  as  was 
on  the  neck  of  the  dead  Vera,  and  the  origin  of 
which  he  could  not  understand.  And  every  time 
he  meditated  on  the  cause.  If  it  had  been  the 
train  which  struck  it,  it  would  have  shattered 
her  whole  head,  and  the  head  of  the  dead  Vera 
was  quite  uninjured. 

Could  it  be  that  some  one  had  touched  it  with 
his  foot  when  carrying  home  the  corpse;  or  was 
it  done  unintentionally  with  the  nail? 

But  to  think  long  about  the  details  of  her 
death  was  horrible  to  Father  Ignaty,  so  he  would 
pass  on  to  the  eyes  of  the  portrait.  They  were 
black  and  beautiful,  with  long  eyelashes,  the 
thick  shadow  of  which  lay  below,  so  that  the 
whites  seemed  peculiarly  bright,  and  the  two  eyes 
were    as    though    enclosed    in    black    mourning 


SILENCE  113 

frames.  The  unknown  artist,  a  man  of  talent, 
had  given  to  them  a  strange  expression.  It  was 
as  though  between  the  eyes,  and  that  on  which 
they  rested,  there  was  a  thin,  transparent  film. 
It  reminded  one  of  the  black  top  of  a  grand 
piano,  on  which  the  summer  dust  lay  in  a  thin 
layer,  almost  imperceptible,  but  still  dimming 
the  brightness  of  the  polished  wood.  And  wher- 
ever Father  Ignaty  placed  the  portrait,  the  eyes 
continually  followed  him,  not  speaking,  but  si- 
lent; and  the  silence  was  so  clear  that  it  seemed 
possible  to  hear  it.  And  by  degrees  Father 
Ignaty  came  to  think  that  he  did  hear  the 
silence. 

Every  morning  after  the  Eucharist  Father 
Ignaty  would  go  to  the  sitting-room,  w^ould  take 
in  at  a  glance  the  empty  cage,  and  all  the  well- 
known  arrangement  of  the  room,  sit  down  in  an 
arm-chair,  close  his  eyes  and  listen  to  the  silence 
of  the  house.  It  was  something  strange.  The 
cage  was  gently  and  tenderly  silent ;  and  grief  and 
tears,  and  far-away  dead  laughter  were  felt  in 
that  silence.  The  silence  of  his  wife,  softened 
by  the  intervening  walls,  was  obstinate,  heavy  as 
lead;  and  terrible,  so  terrible  that  Father  Ignaty 
turned  cold  on  the  hottest  day.  Endless,  cold  as 
the  grave,  mysterious  as  death,  was  the  silence  of 
his  daughter.  It  w^as  as  though  the  silence  were 
a  torture  to  itself,  and  as  though  it  longed  pas- 
sionately to  pass  into  speech,  but  that  something 
strong  and  dull  as  a  machine,  held  it  motion- 


1 14  SILENCE 

less,  and  stretched  it  like  a  wire.  And  then 
somewhere  in  the  far  distance,  the  wire  began  to 
vibrate  and  emit  a  soft,  timid,  pitiful  sound. 
Father  Ignaty,  with  a  mixture  of  joy  and  fear, 
would  catch  this  incipient  sound,  and  pressing 
his  hands  on  the  arms  of  the  chair,  would  stretch 
his  head  forward  and  wait  for  the  sound  to  reach 
him.  But  it  would  break  off,  and  lapse  into 
silence. 

''Nonsense!"  Father  Ignaty  would  angrily  ex- 
claim, and  rise  from  the  chair,  tall  and  upright 
as  ever.  From  the  window  was  to  be  seen  the 
market-place,  bathed  in  sunlight,  paved  with 
round,  even  stones,  and  on  the  other  side  the  stone 
wall  of  a  long,  windowless  storehouse.  At  the 
corner  stood  a  cab  like  a  statue  in  clay,  and  it 
was  incomprehensible  why  it  continued  to  stand 
there,  when  for  whole  hours  together  not  a  single 
passerby  was  to  be  seen. 


Ill 

Out  of  the  house  Father  Ignaty  had  much 
talking  to  do:  with  his  ecclesiastical  subordi- 
nates, and  with  his  parishioners  when  he  was  per- 
forming his  duties;  and  sometimes  with  acquain- 
tances when  he  played  with  them  at  ''Prefer- 
ence." But  when  he  returned  home  he  thought 
that  he  had  been  all  the  day  silent.  This  came 
of  the  fact  that  with  none  of  these  people  could 


SILENCE  115 

he  speak  of  the  question  which  was  the  chief  and 
most  important  of  all  to  him,  which  racked  his 
thoughts  every  night:  Why  had  Vera  died? 

Father  Ignaty  was  unwilling  to  admit  to  him- 
self that  it  w^as  impossible  now  to  solve  this  diffi- 
culty, and  kept  on  thinking  that  it  was  still 
possible. 

Every  night — and  they  were  all  now  for  him 
sleepless — he  would  recall  the  moment  when  he 
and  his  wife  had  stood  by  Vera's  bed  at  darkest 
midnight,  and  he  had  entreated  her  "Speak!" 
And  when  in  his  recollections  he  arrived  at  that 
word,  even  the  rest  of  the  scene  presented  itself  to 
him  as  different  to  what  it  had  really  been.  His 
closed  eyes  preserved  in  their  darkness  a  vivid, 
unblurred  picture  of  that  night;  they  saw  dis- 
tinctly Vera  lifting  herself  upon  her  bed  and  say- 
ing with  a  smile But  what  did  she  say? 

And  that  unuttered  word  of  hers,  which  would 
solve  the  whole  question,  seemed  so  near,  that  if 
he  were  to  stretch  his  ear  and  still  the  beating  of 
his  heart,  then,  then  he  would  hear  it — and  at 
the  same  time  it  was  so  infinitely,  so  desperately 
far. 

Father  Ignaty  would  rise  from  his  bed,  and 
stretching  forth  his  clasped  hands  in  a  gesture 
of  supplication,  entreat: 

''Vera!" 

And  silence  was  the  answer  he  received. 

One  evening  Father  Ignaty  went  to  Olga  Step- 
anovna's  room,  where  he  had  not  been  for  about 


ii6  SILENCE 

a  week,  and  sitting  down  near  the  head  of  her 
bed,  he  turned  away  from  her  doleful,  obstinate 
gaze,  and  said: 

"Mother!  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  Vera. 
Do  you  hear?" 

Her  eyes  were  silent,  and  Father  Ignaty  rais- 
ing his  voice  began  to  speak  in  the  loud  and 
severe  tones  with  which  he  addressed  his  peni- 
tents : 

"I  know  you  think  that  I  was  the  cause  of 
Vera's  death.     But  consider,  did  I  love  her  less 

than  you?     You  judge  strangely 1  was  strict, 

but  did  that  prevent  her  from  doing  as  she 
pleased?  I  made  little  of  the  respect  due  to  a 
father;  I  meekly  bowed  my  neck,  when  she,  with 
no  fear  of  my  curse,  went  away — thither.     And 

you mother did  not  you  with  tears  entreat 

her  to  remain,  until  I  ordered  you  to  be  silent. 
Am  I  responsible  for  her  being  born  hard- 
hearted? Did  I  not  teach  her  of  God,  of  humil- 
ity, and  of  love? 

Father  Ignaty  gave  a  swift  glance  into  his 
wife's  eyes,  and  turned  away. 

"What  could  I  do  with  her,  if  she  would  not 
open  her  grief  to  me.  Command?  I  com- 
manded her.  Intreat?  I  intreated.  What? 
Do  you  think  I  ought  to  have  gone  down  on  my 
knees  before  the  little  chit  of  a  girl,  and  wept, 
like  an  old  woman!  What  she  had  got  in  her 
head,  and  where  she  got  it,  I  know  not.  Cruel, 
heartless  daughter!" 


SILENCE  117 

Father  Ignaty  smote  his  knees  with  his  fists. 

''She  was  devoid  of  love — that's  what  it  was! 
I  know  well  enough  what  she  called  me — a  ty- 
rant. You  she  did  love,  didn't  she?  You  who 
wept,  and humbled  yourself?" 

Father  Ignaty  laughed  noiselessly. 

''Lo — 0 — ved!  That's  it,  to  comfort  you  she 
chose  such  a  death — a  cruel,  disgraceful  death! 

She  died  on  the  ballast,  in  the  dirt like  a 

d — d — og,  to  which  some  one  gives  a  kick  on  the 
mAizzle." 

Father  Ignaty's  voice  sounded  low  and 
hoarse : 

''I'm  ashamed!  I'm  ashamed  to  go  out  into 
the  street!  I'm  ashamed  to  come  out  of  the 
chancel!  I'm  ashamed  before  God.  Cruel,  un- 
worthy daughter!  One  could  curse  you  in  your 
grave " 

When  Father  Ignaty  glanced  again  at  his  wife, 
she  had  fainted,  and  did  not  come  to  herself  for 
some  hours.  And  when  she  did  come  to  herself 
her  eyes  were  silent,  and  it  was  impossible  to 
know  whether  she  understood  what  Father 
Ignaty  had  said  to  her,  or  no. 

That  same  night — it  was  a  moonlight  night  in 
July,  still,  warm,  soundless — Father  Ignaty  crept 
on  tiptoe,  so  that  his  wife  and  her  nurse  should 
not  hear  him,  up  the  stairs  to  Vera's  room.  The 
window  of  the  belvedere  had  not  been  opened 
since  the  death  of  Vera,  and  the  atmosphere  was 
dry  and  hot,  with  a  slight  smell  of  scorching  from 


ii8  SILENCE 

the  iron  roof,  which  had  become  heated  during 
the  day.  There  was  an  uninhabited  and  de- 
serted feeling  about  the  apartment  from  which 
man  had  been  absent  so  long,  and  in  which  the 
wood  of  the  walls,  the  furniture  and  other  objects 
gave  out  a  faint  smell  of  growing  decay. 

The  moonlight  fell  in  a  bright  stripe  across 
the  window  and  floor,  and  reflected  by  the  care- 
fully washed  white  boards  it  illumined  the  cor- 
ners with  a  dim  semi-light,  and  the  clean  white 
bed  with  its  two  pillows,  a  big  one  and  a  little 
one,  looked  unearthly  and  ghostly.  Father 
Ignaty  opened  the  window,  and  the  fresh  air 
poured  into  the  room  in  a  broad  stream,  smelling 
of  dust,  of  the  neighbouring  river,  and  the  flow- 
ering lime,  and  bore  on  it  a  scarcely  audible 
chorus,  apparently,  of  people  rowing  a  boat,  and 
singing  as  they  rowed. 

Stepping  silently  on  his  naked  feet,  like  a  white 
ghost.  Father  Ignaty  approached  the  empty  bed, 
and  bending  his  knees  fell  face-down  on  the  pil- 
lows, and  embraced  them — the  place  where  Vera's 
face  ought  to  have  been. 

He  lay  long  so.  The  song  became  louder,  and 
then  gradually  became  inaudible ;  but  he  still  lay 
there,  with  his  long  black  hair  dishevelled  over 
his  shoulders  and  on  the  bed. 

The  moon  had  moved  on,  and  the  room  had 
become  darker,  when  Father  Ignaty  raised  his 
head,  and  throwing  into  his  voice  all  the  force 
of  a  long  suppressed  and  long  unacknowledged 


SILENCE  1 19 

love,  and  listening  to  his  words,  as  though  not  he, 
but  Vera,  were  listening  to  them,  exclaimed: 

''Vera,  my  daughter!  Do  you  understand 
what  it  means,  daughter!  Little  daughter! 
My  heart!  my  blood,  my  life!  Your  father, 
your  poor  old  father,  already  grey  and  feeble." 

His  shoulders  shook,  and  all  his  heavy  frame 
was  convulsed.  With  a  shudder  Father  Ignaty 
whispered  tenderly,  as  to  a  little  child : 

"Your  poor  old  father  asks  you.  Yes,  Ve- 
rochka,  he  entreats.  He  weeps.  He  who  never 
was  so  wont.  Your  grief,  my  little  daughter, 
your  suffering,  are  my  own.     More  than  mine." 

Father  Ignaty  shook  his  head. 

''More,  Verochka.  What  is  death  to  me,  an 
old  man?  But  you .  If  only  you  had  real- 
ized, how  tender,  weak  and  timid  you  were !  Do 
you  remember  how  w^hen  you  pricked  your  finger 
and  the  blood  came,  you  began  to  cry.  My  little 
daughter!  And  you  do  indeed  love  me,  love  me 
dearly,  I  know.  Every  morning  you  kiss  my 
hand.  Speak,  speak  of  what  is  grieving  you — 
and  I  with  these  two  hands  will  strangle 
vour  grief.  They  are  still  strong,  Vera,  these 
hands." 

His  locks  shook. 

"Speak!" 

He  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  wall,  and  stretching 
out  his  hands,  cried: 

"Speak!" 

But  the  chamber  was  silent,  and  from  the  far 


120  SILENCE 

distance  was  borne  in  the  sound  of  the  long  and 
short  whistles  of  a  locomotive. 

Father  Ignaty,  rolling  his  distended  eyes,  as 
though  there  stood  before  him  the  frightful  ghost 
of  a  mutilated  corpse,  slov/ly  raised  himself  from 
his  knees,  and  with  uncertain  movement  lifted  his 
hand,  with  the  fingers  separated  and  nervously 
stretched  out,  to  his  head.  Going  out  by  the 
door.  Father  Ignaty  sharply  whispered  the  word: 

''Speak!" 

And  silence  was  the  answer  he  received. 


IV 


The  next  day,  after  an  early  and  solitary  din- 
ner. Father  Ignaty  went  to  the  cemetery — for  the 
first  time  since  the  death  of  his  daughter.  It  was 
close,  deserted,  and  still,  as  though  the  hot  day 
were  but  an  illumined  night;  but  Father  Ignaty 
as  his  habit  was,  with  an  effort  straightened  his 
back,  looked  sternly  from  side  to  side,  and 
thought  that  he  was  the  same  as  heretofore.  He 
did  not  regard  the  new,  but  terrible,  weakness  of 
his  legs,  nor  that  his  long  beard  had  grown  com- 
pletely white,  as  though  bitten  by  a  hard  frost. 
The  way  to  the  cemetery  led  through  the  long, 
straight  street,  which  sloped  gently  upwards,  and 
at  the  end  of  which  gleamed  white  the  roof  of  the 
lych-gate,  which  was  like  a  black,  ever-open 
mouth  edged  with  gleaming  teeth. 


SILENCE  121 

Vera's  grave  lay  in  the  very  depth  of  the  ceme- 
tery, where  the  gravelled  pathways  ended;  and 
Father  Ignaty  had  to  wander  for  long  on  the 
narrow  tracks,  along  a  broken  line  of  little 
mounds  which  protruded  from  the  grass,  for- 
gotten of  all,  deserted  of  all.  Here  and  there  he 
came  upon  monuments  sloping  and  green  with 
age,  broken-down  railings,  and  great  heavy 
stones  cast  upon  the  ground,  and  pressing  it  with 
a  sort  of  grim  senile  malignity. 

Vera's  grave  was  next  to  one  of  these  stones. 
It  was  covered  with  new  sods,  already  turning 
yellow,  while  all  around  it  was  green.  A  rovv^an 
tree  was  intertwined  with  a  maple,  and  a  widely 
spreading  clump  of  hazel  stretched  its  pliant 
branches  w^ith  rough  furred  leaves  over  the  grave. 
Sitting  down  on  the  neighbouring  tomb,  and  sigh- 
ing repeatedly.  Father  Ignaty  looked  round,  cast 
a  glance  at  the  cloudless  desert  sky,  in  which  the 
red-hot  disc  of  the  sun  hung  suspended  in  per- 
fect immobility — and  then  only  did  he  become 
conscious  of  that  profound  stillness,  like  nothing 
else  in  the  world,  which  holds  sway  over  a  ceme- 
tery, when  there  is  not  a  breath  of  wind  to  rustle 
the  dead  leaves.  And  once  more  the  thought 
came  to  Father  Ignaty,  that  this  was  not  stillness, 
but  silence.  It  overflowed  to  the  very  brick  walls 
of  the  cemetery,  climbed  heavily  over  them,  and 
submerged  the  city.  And  its  end  was  only  there 
— in  those  grey,  stubbornly,  obstinately  silent 
eyes. 


122  SILENCE 

Father  Ignaty  shrugged  his  shoulders,  which 
were  becoming  cold,  and  let  his  eyes  fall  on  Vera's 
grave.  He  gazed  long  at  the  short  little  seared 
stalks  of  grass,  which  had  been  torn  from  the 
ground  somewhere  in  the  wide  wind-swept  fields, 
and  had  failed  to  take  root  in  the  new  soil;  and 
he  could  not  realize  that  there,  under  that  grass, 
at  a  few  feet  from  him,  lay  Vera.  And  this  near- 
ness seemed  incomprehensible,  and  imbued  his 
soul  with  a  confusion  and  strange  alarm.  She, 
of  whom  he  was  accustomed  to  think  as  having 
for  ever  disappeared  in  the  dark  depth  of  in- 
finity, was  here,  close — and  it  was  difficult  to 
understand  that  nevertheless  she  was  not,  and 
never  would  be  again.  And  it  seemed  to  Father 
Ignaty  that  if  he  spoke  some  word,  which  he  al- 
most felt  upon  his  lips,  or  if  he  made  some  move- 
ment, Vera  would  come  forth  from  the  tomb,  and 
stand  up  as  tall  and  beautiful  as  ever.  And  that 
not  only  would  she  arise;  but  that  all  the  dead, 
who  could  be  felt,  so  awesome  in  their  solemn 
cold  silence,  would  rise  too. 

Father  Ignaty  took  off  his  black  wide-brimmed 
hat,  smoothed  his  wavy  locks,  and  said  in  a 
whisper : 

"Vera!" 

He  became  uneasy  lest  he  should  be  heard  by 
some  stranger,  and  stood  upon  the  tomb  and 
looked  over  the  crosses.  But  there  was  no  one 
near,  and  he  repeated  aloud: 

"Vera!" 


SILENCE  123 

It  was  Father  Ignaty's  old  voice,  dry  and  ex- 
acting, and  it  was  strange  that  a  demand  made 
with  such  force  remained  without  answer. 

''Vera!" 

Loud  and  persistently  the  voice  called,  and 
when  it  was  silent  for  a  moment  it  seemed  as 
though  somewhere  below  a  vague  answer  re- 
sounded. And  Father  Ignaty  looked  once  more 
around,  removed  his  hair  from  his  ears,  and  laid 
them  on  the  rough  prickly  sod. 

"Vera!     Speak!" 

And  Father  Ignaty  felt  with  horror  that  some- 
thing cold  as  the  tomb  penetrated  his  ear,  and 
froze  the  brain,  and  that  Vera  spoke — but  what 
she  said  was  ever  the  same  long  silence.  It  be- 
came ever  more  and  more  alarming  and  terrible, 
and  when  Father  Ignaty  dragged  his  head  with 
an  effort  from  the  ground,  pale  as  that  of  a 
corpse,  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  whole  air  trem- 
bled and  vibrated  with  a  resonant  silence,  as 
though  a  wild  storm  had  arisen  on  that  terrible 
sea.  The  silence  choked  him:  it  kept  rolling 
backwards  and  forwards  through  his  head  in  icy 
waves,  and  stirred  his  hair;  it  broke  against  his 
bosom,  which  groaned  beneath  the  shocks. 
Trembling  all  over,  casting  from  side  to  side 
quick,  nervous  glances,  he  slowly  raised  himself, 
and  strove  with  torturing  efforts  to  straighten  his 
back  and  to  restore  the  proud  carriage  to  his 
trembling  body.  And  in  this  he  succeeded. 
With  slow  deliberation  he  shook  the  dust  from 


124  SILENCE 

his  knees,  put  on  his  hat,  made  the  sign  of  the 
cross  three  times  over  the  grave,  and  went  with 
even,  firm  gait,  and  yet  did  not  recognize  the 
well-known  cemetery,  and  lost  his  way. 

^'Lost  my  way!"  he  laughed,  and  stood  still 
at  the  branching  paths. 

He  stood  still  for  a  moment,  and  then  without 
thinking  turned  to  the  left,  because  it  was  impos- 
sible to  stand  still  and  wait.  The  silence  pur- 
sued him.  It  rose  from  the  green  graves;  the 
grim  grey  crosses  breathed  it;  it  came  forth  in 
thin  suffocating  streams  from  every  pore  of  the 
ground,  which  was  sated  with  corpses.  Father 
Ignaty's  steps  became  quicker  and  quicker. 
Dazed,  he  went  round  the  same  paths  again  and 
again,  he  leapt  the  graves,  stumbled  against  the 
railings,  grasped  the  prickly  tin  wreaths,  and 
the  soft  stuff  tore  to  pieces  in  his  hands.  Only 
one  thought,  that  of  getting  out,  was  left  in  his 
head.  He  rushed  from  side  to  side,  and  at  last 
ran  noiselessly,  a  tall  figure,  almost  unrecogniz- 
able in  his  streaming  cassock,  with  his  hair  float- 
ing on  the  air.  More  frightened  than  at  the  sight 
of  a  corpse  risen  from  the  grave,  would  have  been 
any  one  who  had  met  this  wild  figure  of  a  man 
running,  leaping,  waving  his  arms — if  he  had 
recognized  his  mad,  distorted  face,  and  heard  the 
dull  rattle  that  escaped  from  his  open  mouth. 

At  full  run  Father  Ignaty  jumped  out  upon 
the  little  square  at  the  end  of  which  stood  the 
low  white  mortuary  chapel.     In  the  porch  on  a 


SILENCE  125 

little  bench  there  dozed  an  old  man  who  looked 
like  a  pilgrim  from  afar,  and  near  him  two  old 
beggar-women  were  flying  at  one  another,  quar- 
relling and  scolding. 

When  Father  Ignaty  reached  home,  it  was  al- 
ready getting  dark,  and  the  lamp  was  lit  in  Olga 
Stepanovna's  room.  Without  change  of  clothes 
or  removing  his  hat,  torn  and  dusty,  he  came 
hurriedly  to  his  wife  and  fell  on  his  knees. 

"Mother — Olga — pity  me!"  he  sobbed;  ''I  am 
going  out  of  my  mind." 

He  beat  his  head  against  the  edge  of  the  table, 
and  sobbed  tumultuously,  painfully,  as  a  man 
does  who  never  weeps.  He  lifted  his  head,  con- 
fident that  in  a  moment  a  miracle  would  be  per- 
formed, and  that  his  wife  would  speak,  and  pity 
him. 

''Dear!" 

With  his  whole  big  body  he  stretched  out  to- 
w^ards  his  wife,  and  met  the  look  of  the  grey  eyes. 
In  them  there  was  neither  compassion  nor  anger. 
Maybe  his  wife  forgave  and  pitied  him,  but  in 
those  eyes  there  was  neither  pity  nor  forgiveness. 
They  were  dumb  and  silent. 

And  the  whole  desolate  house  was  silent. 


LAUGHTER 


At  6:30  I  was  certain  that  she  would  come, 
and  I  was  desperately  happy.  My  coat  was  fas- 
tened only  by  the  top  button,  and  fluttered  in  the 
cold  wind;  but  I  felt  no  cold.  My  head  was 
proudly  thrown  back,  and  my  student's  cap  was 
cocked  on  the  back  of  my  head;  my  eyes  with 
respect  to  the  men  they  met  were  expressive  of 
patronage  and  boldness,  with  respect  to  the 
women  of  a  seductive  tenderness.  Although  she 
had  been  my  only  love  for  four  whole  days,  I 
was  so  young,  and  my  heart  was  so  rich  in  love, 
that  I  could  not  remain  perfectly  indifferent  to 
other  women.  My  steps  were  quick,  bold  and 
free. 

At  6:45  my  coat  was  fastened  by  two  buttons, 
and  I  looked  only  at  the  women,  but  no  longer 
with  a  seductive  tenderness,  but  rather  with  dis- 
gust. I  only  wanted  one  woman — the  others 
might  go  to  the  devil ;  they  only  confused  me,  and 
with  their  seeming  resemblance  to  Her  gave  to 
my  movements  an  uncertain  and  jerky  indeci- 
sion. 

At  6:55  I  felt  warm. 

At  6:58  I  felt  cold. 

126 


LAUGHTER  127 

As  it  struck  seven  I  was  convinced  that  she 
would  not  come. 

By  8 : 30  I  presented  the  appearance  of  the  most 
pitiful  creature  in  the  world.  My  coat  was  fas- 
tened with  all  its  buttons,  collar  turned  up,  cap 
tilted  over  my  nose,  which  was  blue  with  cold; 
my  hair  was  over  my  forehead,  my  moustache 
and  eyelashes  were  whitening  with  rime,  and  my 
teeth  gently  chattered.  From  my  shambling 
gait,  and  bowed  back,  I  might  have  been  taken 
for  a  fairly  hale  old  man  returning  from  a  party 
at  the  almshouse. 

And    She   was   the   cause   of   all   this — She! 

"Oh,  the  Dev !     No,  I  won't.     Perhaps  she 

could  not  get  away,  or  she  is  ill,  or  dead.  She's 
dead!" — and  I  swore. 


II 


'^ Eugenia  Nikolaevna  will  be  there  to-night," 
one  of  my  companions,  a  student,  remarked  to 
me,  without  the  slightest  arriere  pensee.  He 
could  not  know  how  that  I  had  waited  for  her  in 
the  frost  from  seven  to  half-past  eight. 

"Indeed,"  I  replied,  as  in  deep  thought,  but 
within    my    soul    there    leapt    out:     "Oh,    the 

Dev !"     "There"    meant    at   the    Polozovs' 

evening  party.  Now  the  Polozovs  were  people 
with  whom  I  was  not  upon  visiting  terms.  But 
this  evening  I  would  be  there. 


128  LAUGHTER 

''You  fellows!"  I  shouted  cheerfully,  "to-day 
is  Christmas  Day,  when  everybody  enjoys  him- 
self.    Let  us  do  so  too." 

"But  how?"  one  of  them  mournfully  replied. 

"And  where?"  continued  another. 

"We  will  dress  up,  and  go  round  to  all  the 
evening  parties,"  I  decided. 

And  these  insensate  individuals  actually  be- 
came cheerful.  They  shouted,  leapt,  and  sang. 
They  thanked  me  for  my  suggestion,  and  counted 
up  the  amount  of  "the  ready"  available.  In  the 
course  of  half  an  hour  we  had  collected  all  the 
lonely,  disconsolate  students  in  town;  and  when 
we  had  recruited  a  cheerful  dozen  or  so  of  leap- 
ing devils,  we  repaired  to  a  hairdresser's — he 
was  also  a  costumier — and  let  in  there  the  cold, 
and  youth,  and  laughter. 

I  wanted  something  sombre  and  handsome, 
with  a  shade  of  elegant  sadness;  so  I  requested: 

"Give  me  the  dress  of  a  Spanish  grandee." 

Apparently  this  grandee  had  been  very  tall, 
for  I  was  altogether  swallowed  up  in  his  dress, 
and  felt  there  as  absolutely  alone  as  though  I 
had  been  in  a  wide,  empty  hall.  Getting  out  of 
this  costume,  I  asked  for  something  else. 

"Would  you  like  to  be  a  clown?  Motley  with 
bells." 

"A  clown,  indeed!"  I  exclaimed  with  con- 
tempt. 

"Well,  then,  a  bandit.  Such  a  hat  and  dag- 
ger!" 


LAUGHTER  129 

Oh!  dagger!  Yes,  that  would  suit  my  pur- 
pose. But  unfortunately  the  bandit  whose 
clothes  they  gave  me  had  scarcely  grown  to  full 
stature.  Most  probably  he  had  been  a  corrupt 
youth  of  eight  years.  His  little  hat  would  not 
cover  the  back  of  my  head,  and  I  had  to  be 
dragged  out  of  his  velvet  breeks  as  out  of  a  trap. 
A  page's  dress  was  no  go:  it  was  all  spotted  like 
the  pard.     The  monk's  cowl  was  all  in  holes. 

''Look  sharp;  it's  late,"  said  my  companions, 
who  were  already  dressed,  trying  to  hurry  me 
up. 

There  was  but  one  costume  left — that  of  a 
distinguished  Chinaman.  ''Give  me  the  China- 
man's," said  I  with  a  wave  of  my  hand.  And 
they  gave  it  me.  It  was  the  devil  knows  what! 
I  am  not  speaking  of  the  costume  itself.  I  pass 
over  in  silence  those  idiotic  flowered  boots,  which 
were  too  short  for  me,  and  reached  only  half-way 
to  my  knees;  but  in  the  remaining,  by  far  the 
most  essential  part,  stuck  out  like  two  incompre- 
hensible adjuncts  on  either  side  of  my  feet.  I 
say  nothing  of  the  pink  rag  which  covered  my 
head  like  a  wig,  and  was  tied  by  threads  to  my 
ears,  so  that  they  protruded  and  stood  up  like  a 
bat's.     But  the  mask! 

It  was,  if  one  may  use  the  expression,  a  face 
in  the  abstract.  It  had  nose,  eyes,  and  mouth 
all  right  enough,  and  all  in  the  proper  places; 
but  there  was  nothing  human  about  it.  A  hu- 
man being  could  not  look  so  placid — even  in  his 


130  LAUGHTER 

coffin.  It  was  expressive  neither  of  sorrow,  nor 
cheerfulness,  nor  surprise — it  expressed  abso- 
lutely nothing!  It  looked  at  you  squarely,  and 
placidly — and  an  uncontrollable  laughter  over- 
whelmed you.  My  companions  rolled  about  on 
the  sofas,  sank  impotently  down  on  the  chairs, 
and  gesticulated. 

^'It  will  be  the  most  original  mask  of  the  eve- 
ning," they  declared. 

I  was  ready  to  weep;  but  no  sooner  did  I 
glance  in  the  mirror  than  I  too  was  convulsed 
with  laughter.  Yes,  it  will  be  a  most  original 
mask! 

''In  no  circumstances  are  we  to  take  off  our 
masks,"  said  my  companions  on  the  way.  "We 
will  give  our  word." 

"Honour  bright!" 


Ill 

Positively  it  was  the  most  original  mask. 
People  followed  me  in  crowds,  turned  me  about, 
jostled  me,  pinched  me.  But  when,  harried,  I 
turned  on  my  persecutors  in  anger — uncontrol- 
lable laughter  seized  them.  Wherever  I  went, 
a  roaring  cloud  of  laughter  encompassed  and 
pressed  on  me;  it  moved  together  with  me,  and  I 
could  not  escape  from  this  circle  of  mad  mirth. 
Sometimes  it  seized  even  myself,  and  I  shouted, 
sang,  and  danced  till  everything  seemed  to  go 


LAUGHTER  131 

round  before  me,  as  if  I  was  drunk.  But  how 
remote  everything  was  from  me !  And  how  soli- 
tary was  I  under  that  mask!  At  last  they  left 
me  in  peace.  With  anger  and  fear,  with  malice 
and  tenderness  intermingling,  I  looked  at  her. 

''  'Tis  I." 

Her  long  eyelashes  were  lifted  slowly  in  sur- 
prise, and  a  whole  sheaf  of  black  rays  flashed 
upon  me,  and  a  laugh,  resonant,  joyous,  bright 
as  the  spring  sunshine — a  laugh  answered  me. 

"Yes,  it  is  I;  I,  I  say,"  I  insisted  with  a  smile. 
"Why  did  you  not  come  this  evening?" 

But  she  only  laughed,  laughed  joyously. 

"I  suffered  so  much;  I  felt  so  hurt,"  said  I, 
imploring  an  answer. 

But  she  only  laughed.  The  black  sheen  of 
her  eyes  was  extinguished,  and  still  more  brightly 
her  smile  lit  up.  It  was  the  sun  indeed,  but 
burning,  pitiless,  cruel. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?" 

"Is  it  really  you?"  said  she,  restraining  her- 
self.    "How  comical  you  are!" 

My  shoulders  were  bowed,  and  my  head  hung 
dow^n — such  despair  was  there  in  my  pose.  And 
while  she,  w4th  the  expiring  afterglow  of  the 
smile  upon  her  face,  looked  at  the  happy  young 
couples  that  hurried  by  us,  I  said:  "It's  not  nice 
to  laugh.  Do  you  not  feel  that  there  is  a  living, 
suffering  face  behind  my  ridiculous  mask — and 
can't  you  see  that  it  was  only  for  the  opportunity 
it  gave  me  of  seeing  you  that  I  put  it  on?     You 


132  LAUGHTER 

gave  me  reason  to  hope  for  your  love,  and  then 
so  quickly,  so  cruelly  deprived  me  of  it.  Why 
did  you  not  come?" 

With  a  protest  on  her  tender,  smiling  lips,  she 
turned  sharply  to  me,  and  a  cruel  laugh  utterly 
overwhelmed  her.  Choking,  almost  weeping, 
covering  her  face  with  a  fragrant  lace  handker- 
chief, she  brought  out  with  difficulty:  "Look  at 
yourself  in  the  mirror  behind.  Oh,  how  droll 
you  are!" 

Contracting  my  brows,  clenching  my  teeth  with 
pain,  with  a  face  grown  cold,  from  which  all  the 
blood  had  fled,  I  looked  at  the  mirror.  There 
gazed  out  at  me  an  idiotically  placid,  stolidly 
complacent,  inhumanly  immovable  face.  And  I 
burst  into  an  uncontrollable  fit  of  laughter.  And 
w4th  the  laughter  not  yet  subsided,  but  already 
with  the  trembling  of  rising  anger,  with  the  mad- 
ness of  despair,  I  said — nay,  almost  shouted: 

"You  ought  not  to  laugh!" 

And  when  she  was  quiet  again  I  went  on  speak- 
ing in  a  whisper  of  my  love.  I  had  never  spoken 
so  well,  for  I  had  never  loved  so  strongly.  I 
spoke  of  the  tortures  of  expectation,  of  the  veno- 
mous tears  of  mad  jealousy  and  grief,  of  my  own 
soul  which  was  all  love.  And  I  saw  how  her 
drooping  eyelashes  cast  thick  dark  shadow  over 
her  blanched  cheeks.  I  saw  how  across  their 
dull  pallor  the  fire,  bursting  into  flame,  threw  a 
red  reflection,  and  how  her  whole  pliant  body  in- 
voluntarily bent  towards  me. 


LAUGHTER  133 

She  was  dressed  as  the  Goddess  of  Night,  and 
was  all  mysterious,  clad  in  a  black,  mist-like 
face,  which  twinkled  with  stars  of  brilliants. 
She  was  beautiful  as  a  forgotten  dream  of  far-off 
childhood.  As  I  spoke  my  eyes  filled  with  tears, 
and  my  heart  beat  with  gladness.  And  I  per- 
ceived, I  perceived  at  last,  how  a  tender,  piteous 
smile  parted  her  lips,  and  her  eyelashes  were 
lifted  all  a-tremble.  Slowly,  timorously,  but 
with  infinite  confidence,  she  turned  her  head  to- 
wards me,  and — 

And  such  a  shriek  of  laughter  I  never  heard! 

''No,  no,  I  can't,"  she  almost  groaned,  and 
throwing  back  her  head,  she  burst  into  a  reso- 
nant cascade  of  laughter. 

Oh,  if  but  for  a  moment  I  could  have  had  a 
human  face!  I  bit  my  lips,  tears  rolled  over 
my  heated  face ;  but  it — that  idiotic  mask,  on 
which  everything  was  in  its  right  place,  nose, 
eyes,  and  lips — ^looked  with  a  complacency  stol- 
idly horrible  in  its  absurdity.  And  when  I  went 
out,  swaying  on  my  flowered  feet,  it  was  long 
before  I  got  out  of  reach  of  that  ringing  laugh. 
It  was  as  though  a  silvery  stream  of  water  were 
falling  from  an  immense  height,  and  breaking  in 
cheerful  song  upon  the  hard  rock. 


134  LAUGHTER 


IV 

Scattered  over  the  whole  sleeping  street  and 
rousing  the  stillness  of  the  night  with  our  lusty, 
excited  voices,  we  walked  home.  A  companion 
said  to  me: 

''You  have  had  a  colossal  success.     I  never 

saw  people  laugh  so Halloa !  what  are  you 

up  to?  Why  are  you  tearing  your  mask?  I 
say,  you  fellows,  he's  gone  mad!  Look,  he's 
tearing  his  costume  to  pieces!  By  Jove!  he's 
actually  crying." 


THE  FRIEND 

When  late  at  night  he  rang  at  his  own  door, 
the  first  sound  after  that  of  the  bell  was  a  reso- 
nant dog's  bark,  in  which  might  be  distinguished 
both  fear  that  it  might  have  been  a  stranger,  and 
joy  that  it  was  his  own  master,  who  had  arrived. 

Then  there  followed  the  squish-squash  of 
goloshes,  and  the  squeak  of  the  key  taken  out 
of  the  lock. 

He  came  in,  and  taking  off  his  wrappers  in 
the  dark,  was  conscious  of  a  silent  female  figure 
close  by,  while  the  nails  of  a  dog  caressingly 
scratched  at  his  knees,  and  a  hot  tongue  licked 
his  chilled  hand. 

"Well,  what  is  it?"  a  sleepy  voice  asked  in  a 
tone  of  perfunctory  interest. 

''Nothing!  I'm  tired,"  curtly  replied  Vladi- 
mir Mikhailovich,  and  went  to  his  own  room. 
The  dog  followed  him,  his  nails  striking  sharply 
on  the  waxed  floor,  and  jumped  on  to  the  bed. 
When  the  light  of  the  lamp  which  he  lit  filled 
the  room,  his  glance  met  the  steady  gaze  of  the 
dog's  black  eyes.  They  seemed  to  say:  "Come 
now,  pet  me."  And  to  make  the  request  better 
understood  the  dog  stretched  out  his  fore-paws, 
and  laid  his  head  sideways  upon  them,  while  his 

135 


136  THE  FRIEND 

hinder  quarters  wriggled  comically,  and  his  tail 
kept  twirling  round  like  the  handle  of  a  barrel- 
organ. 

''My  only  friend!"  said  Vladimir  Mikhailo- 
vich,  as  he  stroked  the  black,  glossy  coat.  As 
though  from  excess  of  feeling  the  dog  turned  on 
his  back,  showed  his  white  teeth,  and  growled 
gently,  joyful  and  excited.  But  Vladimir  Mik- 
hailovich  sighed,  petted  the  dog,  and  thought  to 
himself,  how  that  there  was  no  one  else  in  the 
world  that  would  ever  love  him. 

If  he  happened  to  return  home  early,  and  not 
tired  out  with  work,  he  would  sit  down  to  write, 
and  the  dog  curled  himself  into  a  ball  on  a  chair 
somewhere  near  to  him,  opened  one  black  eye 
now  and  again,  and  sleepily  wagged  his  tail. 
And  when  excited  by  the  process  of  authorship, 
tortured  by  the  sufferings  of  his  own  heroes,  and 
choking  with  a  plethora  of  thoughts  and  mental 
pictures,  he  walked  about  in  his  room,  and 
smoked  cigarette  after  cigarette,  the  dog  would 
follow  him  with  an  anxious  look,  and  wag  his 
tail  more  vigorously  than  ever. 

''Shall  we  become  famous,  you  and  I,  Vas- 
yuk?"  he  would  inquire  of  the  dog,  who  would 
wag  his  tail  in  affirmation.  "We'll  eat  liver 
then,  is  that  right?" 

"Right!"  the  dog  would  reply,  stretching  him- 
self luxuriously.     He  was  very  fond  of  liver. 

Vladimir  Mikhailovich  often  had  visitors. 
Then  his  aunt,  with  whom  he  lived,  would  bor- 


THE  FRIEND  137 

row  china  from  her  neighbour,  and  give  them  tea, 
setting  on  samovar  after  samovar.  She  would 
go  and  buy  vodka  and  sausages,  and  sigh  heavily 
as  she  drew  out  from  the  bottom  of  her  pocket 
a  greasy  rouble-note.  In  the  room  with  its 
smoke-laden  atmosphere  loud  voices  resounded. 
They  quarrelled  and  laughed,  said  droll  and 
sharp  things,  complained  of  their  fate  and  envied 
one  another.  They  advised  Vladimir  Mikhailo- 
vich  to  give  up  literature  and  take  to  some  more 
lucrative  occupation.  Some  said  that  he  ought 
to  consult  a  doctor,  others  clinked  glasses  with 
him,  while  they  bewailed  the  injury  that  vodka 
was  doing  to  his  health.  He  was  so  sickly,  so 
continually  nervous.  This  was  why  he  had  such 
fits  of  depression,  and  w^hy  he  demanded  of  life 
the  impossible.  All  addressed  him  as  "thou," 
and  their  voices  expressed  their  interest  in  him, 
and  in  the  friendliest  manner,  they  would  invite 
him  to  drive  beyond  the  city  with  them,  and  pro- 
long the  conviviality.  And  when  he  drove  off 
merry,  making  more  noise  than  the  others,  and 
laughing  at  nothing,  there  followed  him  two  pairs 
of  eyes:  the  grey  eyes  of  his  aunt,  angry  and  re- 
proachful, and  the  anxiously  caressing  black  eyes 
of  the  dog. 

He  did  not  remember  w^hat  he  did,  when  he 
had  been  drinking,  and  returned  home  in  the 
morning  bespattered  with  mud  and  marl,  and 
without  his  hat. 

They  would  tell  him  afterwards  how  in  his 


138  THE  FRIEND 

cups  he  had  insulted  his  friend;  at  home  had 
reviled  his  Aunt,  who  had  wept  and  said  she 
could  not  bear  such  a  life  any  longer,  but  must 
do  away  with  herself;  and  how  he  had  tortured 
his  dog,  when  he  refused  to  come  to  him  and  be 
petted;  and  that  when,  terrified  and  trembling, 
he  showed  his  teeth,  he  had  beaten  him  with  a 
strap. 

And  the  following  day  all  would  have  finished 
their  day's  work  before  he  woke  up  sick  and 
miserable.  His  heart  would  beat  unevenly  and 
feel  faint,  filling  him  with  dread  of  an  early 
death,  while  his  hands  trembled.  On  the  other 
side  of  the  wall,  in  the  kitchen,  his  Aunt  would 
stump  about,  the  sound  of  her  steps  re-echoing 
through  the  cold,  empty  flat.  She  would  not 
speak  to  Vladimir  Mikhailovich,  but  austere  and 
unforgiving,  gave  him  water  in  silence.  And  he 
too  would  keep  silence,  looking  at  the  ceiling,  at 
a  particular  stain  long  known  to  him,  and  think- 
ing how  he  was  wasting  his  life,  and  that  he 
would  never  gain  fame  and  happiness.  He  con- 
fessed to  himself  that  he  was  w^eak,  worthless 
and  terribly  lonesome.  The  boundless  world 
seethed  with  moving  human  beings,  and  yet  there 
was  not  one  single  soul  who  would  come  to  him 
and  share  his  pains — madly  arrogant  thoughts 
of  fame,  coupled  with  a  deadly  consciousness  of 
worthlessness.  With  trembling,  bungling  hand 
he  would  grip  his  forehead,  and  press  his  eyelids, 
but  however  firmly  he  pressed,   still  the  tears 


THE  FRIEND  139 

would  ooze  through,  and  creep  down  over  his 
cheeks,  which  still  retained  the  scent  of  purchased 
kisses.  And  when  he  dropped  his  hand,  it 
would  fall  upon  another  forehead,  hairy  and 
smooth,  and  his  gaze,  confused  with  tears,  would 
meet  the  caressing  black  eyes  of  the  dog,  and  his 
ears  would  catch  his  soft  sighs.  And  touched 
and  comforted  he  would  whisper: 

"My  friend,  my  only  friend!" 

When  he  recovered,  his  friends  used  to  come 
to  him,  and  softly  reprove  him,  giving  advice 
and  speaking  of  the  evils  of  drink.  But  some  of 
his  friends,  whom  he  had  insulted  when  drunk, 
ceased  to  notice  him  in  the  streets.  They  under- 
stood that  he  did  not  wish  them  any  harm,  but 
they  preferred  not  to  run  the  risk  of  further  un- 
pleasantnesses. Thus  he  spent  the  oppressive 
fume-laden  nights  and  the  sternly  avenging  sun- 
lit days  at  war  with  himself,  his  obscurity  and 
loneliness.  And  ofttimes  the  steps  of  his  Aunt 
resounded  through  the  deserted  flat,  while  from 
the  bed  was  heard  a  whisper,  which  resembled  a 
sigh: 

"My  friend,  my  only  friend!" 

Eventually  his  illusive  fame  came,  came  un- 
guessed  at,  and  unexpected,  and  filled  the  empty 
apartments  with  light  and  life.  His  Aunt's 
steps  were  drowned  in  the  tramp  of  friendly  foot- 
steps, and  the  spectre  of  loneliness  vanished,  and 
the  soft  whisper  ceased.  Vodka,  too,  disap- 
peared, that  ominous  companion  of  the  solitary, 


HO  THE  FRIEND 

and  Vladimir  Mikhailovich  ceased  to  insult  his 
Aunt  and  his  friends. 

The  dog  too  was  glad.  Still  louder  became 
his  bark  on  the  occasion  of  their  belated  meet- 
ings, when  his  master,  his  only  friend,  came  home 
kind,  happy,  and  laughing.  The  dog  himself 
learnt  to  smile;  his  upper  lip  would  be  drawn 
up  exposing  his  white  teeth,  and  his  nose  would 
pucker  up  into  funny  little  wrinkles.  Happy 
and  frolicsome  he  began  to  play;  he  would  seize 
hold  of  things  and  make  as  though  he  would  carry 
them  away,  and  when  his  master  stretched  out  his 
hands  to  catch  him,  he  would  let  him  approach 
to  within  a  stride  of  him,  and  then  run  away 
again,  while  his  black  eyes  sparkled  with  art- 
fulness. 

Sometimes  Vladimir  Mikhailovich  would  point 
to  his  Aunt  and  say,  ''Bite  her!"  and  the  dog 
would  fly  at  her  in  feigned  anger,  shake  her  petti- 
coat, and  then,  out  of  breath,  glance  sideways  at 
his  friend  with  his  roguish  black  eyes.  The 
Aunt's  thin  lips  would  be  contorted  into  an  aus- 
tere smile,  and  stroking  the  dog,  now  tired  out 
with  play,  on  his  glossy  head,  would  say: 

''Sensible  dog! — only  he  does  not  like 
soup." 

And  at  night,  when  Vladimir  Mikhailovich 
was  at  work,  and  only  the  jarring  of  the  win- 
dow-panes, caused  by  the  street  traffic,  broke  the 
stillness,  the  dog  would  doze  near  to  him  on  the 
alert,  and  wake  at  his  slightest  movement. 


THE  FRIEND  141 

"What,  laddie,  would  you  like  some  liver?" 
he  would  ask. 

"Yes,"  would  Vasyuk  reply,  wagging  his  tail  in 
the  affirmative. 

"Well,  wait  a  bit,  I'll  buy  you  some.  What 
do  you  want?  To  be  petted?  I  have  no  time 
now,  I  am  busy;  go  to  sleep,  laddie!" 

Every  night  he  asked  the  dog  about  liver,  but 
he  continually  forgot  to  buy  it,  because  his  head 
was  full  of  plans  for  a  new  work,  and  of 
thoughts  of  a  woman  he  was  in  love  with.  Only 
once  did  he  remember  the  liver.  It  was  in  the 
evening;  he  was  passing  a  butcher's  shop,  arm 
in  arm  with  a  pretty  woman  who  pressed  her 
shoulder  close  against  his.  He  jokingly  told  her 
about  his  dog,  and  praised  his  sense  and  intelli- 
gence. Showing  off  somewhat,  he  went  on  to 
tell  her  that  there  were  terrible,  distressing  mo- 
ments, when  he  regarded  his  dog  as  his  only 
friend,  and  laughingly  related  his  promise  to  buy 
liver  for  his  friend,  when  he  should  have  at- 
tained happiness — and  he  pressed  the  girl's  hand 
closer  to  him. 

"You  clever  fellow,"  cried  she,  laughing;  "you 
would  make  even  stones  speak.  But  I  don't 
like  dogs  at  all:  they  are  so  apt  to  carry  infec- 
tion." 

Vladimir  Mikhailovich  agreed  that  that  was 
the  case,  and  held  his  tongue  with  regard  to  his 
habit  of  sometimes  kissing  that  black  shiny  muz- 
zle. 


142  THE  FRIEND 

One  day,  Vasyuk  played  more  than  usual  dur- 
ing the  daytime,  but  in  the  evening,  when  Vlad- 
imir Mikhailovich  came  home,  he  did  not  turn 
up  to  meet  him,  and  his  Aunt  said  that  the  dog 
was  ill.  Vladimir  Mikhailovich  was  alarmed, 
and  went  into  the  kitchen,  where  the  dog  lay  on 
a  bed  of  soft  litter.  His  nose  was  dry  and  hot, 
and  his  eyes  were  troubled.  He  made  a  slight 
movement  of  his  tail,  and  looked  piteously  at  his 
friend. 

"What  is  it,  boy;  ill?     My  poor  fellow!" 

The  tail  made  a  feeble  motion,  and  the  black 
eyes  became  moist. 

"Lie  still,  then;  lie  still!" 

"He  will  have  to  be  taken  to  the  veterinary: 
but  to-morrow,  I  have  no  time.  But  it  will  pass 
off — "  thought  Vladimir  Mikhailovich,  and  he 
forgot  the  dog  in  thinking  of  the  happiness  the 
pretty  girl  might  give  him.  All  the  next  day  he 
w^as  away  from  home.  When  he  returned  his 
hand  fumbled  long  in  searching  for  the  bell- 
handle,  and  when  it  was  found  hesitated  long  as 
to  what  to  do  with  the  wooden  thing. 

"Ah,  yes!  I  must  ring,"  he  laughed,  and  then 
began  singing,  "Open — ye!" 

The  bell  gave  a  solitary  ring,  goloshes  squish- 
squashed,  and  the  key  squeaked  as  it  was  taken 
out  of  the  lock. 

Vladimir  Mikhailovich,  still  humming,  passed 
through  into  his  room,  and  walked  about  a  long 
time  before  it  occurred  to  him  that  he  ought  to 


THE  FRIEND  143 

light  the  lamp.  Then  he  undressed,  but  for  a 
long  time  he  kept  in  his  hands  the  boots  he 
had  taken  off,  and  looked  at  them  as  though  they 
were  the  pretty  girl,  who  had  only  that  day  said 
so  simply  and  sincerely,  "Yes!  I  love  you!" 
And  when  he  had  got  into  bed,  he  still  saw  her 
speaking  face,  until  side  by  side  with  it  there 
appeared  the  black  shiny  muzzle  of  his  dog,  and 
with  a  sharp  pain  there  crept  into  his  heart  the 
question : 

''But  where  is  Vasyuk?" 

He  became  ashamed  of  having  forgotten  the 
sick  dog — but  not  particularly  so:  for  had  not 
Vasyuk  been  ill  several  times  before,  and  noth- 
ing had  come  of  it.  But  to-morrow  the  veter- 
inary must  be  sent  for.  At  all  events  he  need 
not  think  of  the  dog,  and  of  his  own  ingratitude — 
that  would  do  no  good,  and  would  only  diminish 
his  own  happiness. 

When  morning  came  the  dog  became  worse. 
He  was  troubled  with  nausea,  and  being  a  well- 
mannered  dog,  he  rose  with  difficulty  from  his 
litter,  and  went  to  the  courtyard,  staggering  like 
a  drunken  man.  His  little  black  body  was  sleek 
as  ever,  but  his  head  hung  feebly,  and  his  eyes, 
which  now  looked  grey,  gazed  in  mournful  sur- 
prise. 

At  first  Vladimir  Mikhailovich  himself,  with 
the  help  of  his  Aunt,  opened  wide  the  dog's 
mouth,  with  its  yellowing  gums,  and  poured  in 
medicine:  but  the  dog  was  in  such  pain  and  suf- 


144  THE  FRIEND 

fered  so,  that  it  became  too  distressing  to  him  to 
look  at  him,  and  he  left  him  to  the  care  of  his 
Aunt.  And  when  the  dog's  feeble,  helpless  moan 
penetrated  through  the  wall,  he  stuffed  his  fingers 
into  his  ears,  and  was  surprised  at  the  extent  of 
his  love  for  this  poor  dog. 

In  the  evening  he  went  out.  Before  doing 
so  he  gave  a  look  in  at  the  kitchen.  His  Aunt 
was  on  her  knees  stroking  the  hot,  trembling  head 
with  her  dry  hand. 

With  his  legs  stretched  out  like  sticks,  the  dog 
lay  heavy  and  motionless,  and  only  by  putting 
one's  ear  down  close  to  his  muzzle  could  one  catch 
the  low,  frequent  moans. 

His  eyes,  now  quite  grey,  fixed  themselves  on 
his  master  as  he  came  in,  and  when  he  carefully 
passed  his  hand  over  the  dog's  forehead,  his 
groans  became  clearer  and  more  piteous. 

"What,  laddie,  are  you  so  bad?  But  wait  a 
bit,  when  you  are  well  I  will  buy  you  some  liver." 

"I'll  make  him  eat  soup!"  jokingly  threatened 
the  Aunt. 

The  dog  closed  his  eyes,  and  Vladimir  Mik- 
hailovich  with  a  forced  joke  went  out  in  haste; 
and  when  he  got  into  the  street  he  hired  a  cab, 
since  he  was  afraid  of  being  late  at  the  rendez- 
vous with  Natalya  Lavrentyevna. 

That  autumn's  evening  the  air  was  so  fresh  and 
pure,  and  so  many  stars  twinkled  in  the  dark 
sky!  They  kept  falling,  leaving  behind  them  a 
fiery  track,  and  burst  kindling  with  a  bluish  light 


THE  FRIEND  145 

a  pretty  girl's  face,  and  were  reflected  in  her  dark 
eyes — as  though  a  glow-worm  had  appeared  at 
the  bottom  of  a  deep  dark  well.  And  greedy  lips 
noiselessly  kissed  those  eyes,  those  lips  fresh  as 
the  night  air,  and  those  cool  cheeks.  Voices  ex- 
ultant, and  trembling  w^th  love,  whispered,  prat- 
tling of  joy  and  life. 

When  Vladimir  Mikhailovich  drove  up  to  his 
house,  he  remembered  the  dog,  and  his  breast 
ached  with  a  dark  foreboding. 

When  his  Aunt  opened  the  door,  he  asked: 

''Well,  how's  Vasyuk?" 

''Dead.  He  died  about  an  hour  after  you 
left." 

The  dead  dog  had  been  already  removed  to 
some  outhouse,  and  the  litter  bed  cleared  away. 
But  Vladimir  Mikhailovich  did  not  even  wish  to 
see  the  body;  it  would  be  too  distressing  a  sight. 
When  he  lay  down  in  bed,  and  all  noises  were 
stilled  in  the  empty  flat,  he  began  to  weep  re- 
strainedly.  His  lips  puckered  up  silently,  and 
tears  forced  their  way  through  his  closed  eyelids, 
and  rolled  quickly  down  on  to  his  bosom.  He 
was  ashamed  that  he  was  kissing  a  woman  at 
the  very  moment  when  he,  who  had  been  his 
friend,  lay  a-dying  on  the  floor  alone.  And  he 
dreaded  what  his  Aunt  would  think  of  him,  a  se- 
rious man,  if  she  heard  that  he  had  been  crying 
about  a  dog. 

Much  time  had  elapsed  since  these  events. 
Mysterious,    outrageous    fame    had    left    \ladi- 


146  THE  FRIEND 

mir  Mikhailovich  just  as  it  had  come  to  him.  He 
had  disappointed  the  hopes  that  had  been  built 
on  him,  and  all  were  angry  at  this  disappointment, 
and  avenged  themselves  on  him  by  exasperating 
remarks  and  cold  jeers.  And  then  they  had  shut 
down  on  him  dead,  heavy  oblivion,  like  the  lid 
of  a  coffin. 

The  young  woman  had  dropped  him.  She  too 
considered  herself  taken  in. 

The  oppressive  fume-laden  nights,  and  the  piti- 
lessly vengeful  sun-lit  days,  went  by:  and  fre- 
quently, more  frequently  than  formerly,  the 
Aunt's  steps  resounded  through  the  empty  flat, 
while  he  lay  on  his  bed  looking  at  the  well-kno\vn 
stain  on  the  ceiling,  and  w^hispered: 

^'My  friend,  my  friend,  my  only  friend!" 

And  his  trembling  hand  fell  feebly  on  an  empty 
place. 


IN  THE  BASEMENT 


He  drank  hard,  lost  his  work  and  his  ac- 
quaintances, and  took  up  his  abode  in  a  cellar  in 
the  company  of  thieves  and  unfortunates,  living 
on  the  last  things  he  had. 

His  was  a  sickly,  anaemic  body,  worn  out  with 
work,  eaten  up  by  sufferings  and  vodka.  Death 
was  already  on  the  watch  for  him,  like  a  grey 
bird-of-prey  blind  in  the  sunshine,  sharp-eyed  in 
the  black  night.  By  day  death  hid  itself  in  the 
dark  corners,  but  at  night  it  took  its  seat  noise- 
lessly by  his  bedside,  and  sat  long,  till  the  very 
dawn,  and  was  quiet,  patient,  and  persistent. 
When  at  the  first  streak  of  light  he  put  out  his 
pale  head  from  under  the  blankets,  his  eyes 
gleaming  like  those  of  a  hunted  wild  animal,  the 
room  was  already  empty.  But  he  did  not  trust 
this  deceptive  emptiness,  which  others  believe  in. 
He  suspiciously  looked  round  into  all  the  cor- 
ners ;  with  crafty  suddenness  he  cast  a  glance  be- 
hind his  back,  and  then  leaning  upon  his  elbows 
he  gazed  intently  before  him  into  the  melting 
darkness  of  the  departing  night.  And  then  he 
saw  something,  such  as  ordinary  people  do  not 

147 


148  IN  THE  BASEMENT 

see:  the  rocking  of  a  monster  grey  body,  shape- 
less, terrible.  It  was  transparent,  embraced  all 
things,  and  objects  were  seen  in  it  as  behind  a 
glass  wall.  But  now  he  feared  it  not;  and  it  de- 
parted until  the  next  night,  leaving  behind  it  a 
cold  impression. 

For  a  short  time  he  was  wrapped  in  oblivion, 
and  terrible,  extraordinary  dreams  came  to  him. 
He  saw  a  white  room,  with  white  floor  and  walls, 
illumined  by  a  bright,  white  light,  and  a  black 
serpent  which  was  creeping  away  under  the  door 
with  a  gentle  rustling-like  laughter.  Pressing  its 
sharp  flat  head  to  the  floor,  it  wriggled  and 
quickly  glided  away,  and  was  lost  somewhere  or 
other,  and  then  again  its  black  flattened  nose  ap- 
peared through  a  crevice  under  the  door,  and  its 
body  drew  itself  out  in  a  black  ribbon — and  so 
again  and  again.  Once  in  his  sleep  he  dreamed 
of  something  pleasant,  and  laughed,  but  the 
sound  seemed  strange,  and  more  like  a  suppressed 
sob — it  was  terrible  to  hear  it — his  soul  some- 
where in  the  unknown  depths  laughing,  or  per- 
haps weeping,  while  the  body  lay  motionless  as 
the  dead. 

By  degrees  the  sounds  of  nascent  day  began  to 
invade  his  consciousness:  the  indistinct  talk  of 
passers-by,  the  distant  squeaking  of  a  door,  the 
swish  of  the  dvornik's  broom  as  he  brushed  away 
the  snow  from  the  window-sill — all  the  undefined 
bustle  of  a  great  city  awakening.  And  then  there 
came  upon  him  the  most  horrible,  mercilessly 


IN  THE  BASEMENT  149 

clear  consciousness  that  a  new  day  had  arrived, 
and  that  he  would  soon  have  to  get  up,  in  order 
to  struggle  for  life  without  any  hope  of  victory. 

One  must  live. 

He  turned  his  back  to  the  light,  threw  the 
blanket  over  his  head,  so  that  not  the  minutest  ray 
might  penetrate  to  his  eyes,  squeezed  himself  to- 
gether into  a  small  ball,  drawing  his  legs  up  to 
his  very  chin,  and  so  lay  motionless,  dreading  to 
stir  and  to  stretch  out  his  legs.  A  whole  moun- 
tain of  clothes  lay  upon  him  as  a  protection 
against  the  cold  of  the  basement,  but  he  did  not 
feel  their  weight,  and  his  body  remained  cold. 
And  at  every  sound  speaking  of  life  he  seemed 
to  himself  to  be  monstrous  and  unveiled,  and  he 
hugged  himself  together  all  the  tighter,  and 
silently  groaned — neither  with  voice  nor  in 
thought — since  he  feared  now  his  own  voice  and 
his  own  thoughts.  He  prayed  to  some  one  that 
the  day  might  not  come,  so  that  he  might  always 
lie  under  the  heap  of  rags,  without  movement  or 
thought,  and  he  concentrated  his  whole  will  to 
keep  back  the  coming  day,  and  to  persuade  him- 
self that  it  was  still  night.  And  more  than  any- 
thing in  the  world  he  wished  that  some  one  from 
behind  would  put  a  revolver  to  the  back  of  his 
head,  just  at  the  place  where  there  is  a  cavity,  and 
blow  his  brains  out. 

But  daylight  unfolded,  broad,  irresistible,  call- 
ing forcibly  to  life,  and  all  the  world  began  to 
move,  to  talk,  to  work,  to  think.     The  first  in  the 


150  IN  THE  BASEMENT 

basement  to  wake  was  the  landlady,  old  Matry- 
ona.  She  got  up  from  the  side  of  her  twenty-five- 
year-old  lover,  and  began  to  stamp  about  the 
kitchen,  clatter  with  the  buckets,  and  busy  herself 
about  something  close  to  Khinyakov's  very  door. 
He  felt  her  approach,  and  lay  quiet,  determined 
not  to  answer  if  she  called  him.  But  she  kept 
silence,  and  went  away  somewhere.  In  the 
course  of  an  hour  or  two  the  two  other  lodgers 
woke  up,  an  unfortunate  named  Dunyasha,  and 
the  old  woman's  lover  Abram  Petrovich.  He 
was  so  called  in  spite  of  his  youth  out  of  respect, 
because  he  was  a  daring  and  skilful  thief,  and 
something  else  besides,  which  was  guessed  at,  but 
not  spoken  about. 

The  waking  up  of  these  terrified  Khinyakov 
more  than  anything,  since  they  had  a  hold  on 
him,  and  the  right  to  come  in  and  sit  on  his  bed, 
to  touch  him,  and  recall  him  to  thought  and 
speech.  He  had  become  intimate  with  Dunyasha 
one  day  when  he  was  drunk,  and  had  promised 
her  marriage,  and  although  she  had  laughed  and 
slapped  him  on  the  back,  she  sincerely  considered 
him  as  her  lover,  and  patronized  him,  although 
she  was  herself  a  stupid,  dirty,  unwashed  slut, 
who  had  spent  many  a  night  at  the  police-station. 
With  Abram  Petrovich  he  had  only  the  day  be« 
fore  yesterday  been  drinking,  and  they  had  kissed 
one  another  and  sworn  eternal  friendship. 

When  the  fresh  loud  voice  of  Abram  Petrovich 
and  his   quick  steps  resounded  near  the  door, 


IN  THE  BASEMENT  151 

Khinyakov's  heart's  blood  curdled  with  fear  and 
suspense,  and  he  could  not  help  groaning  aloud, 
and  then  was  all  the  more  frightened.  In  one 
c'istinct  picture  that  drinking-bout  passed  befoie 
him:  how  they  had  sat  in  some  dark  tavern  or 
other,  illumined  by  a  single  lamp,  amid  dark  peo- 
ple who  kept  whispering  together  about  some- 
thing, while  they  themselves  also  whispered  to- 
gether. Abram  Petrovich  was  pale  and  excited, 
and  complained  of  the  hardships  of  a  thief's  life; 
for  some  reason  or  other  he  had  bared  his  arms 
and  allowed  him  to  feel  the  badly-mended  bones 
of  his  once  broken  arm,  and  Khinyakov  had 
kissed  him  and  said: 

''I  love  thieves,  they  are  so  bold,"  and  proposed 
to  him  that  they  should  drink  to  ''brotherhood," 
although  they  had  for  long  been  on  quite  intimate 
terms. 

''And  I  love  you,  because  you  are  educated, 
and  understand  us  so  well,"  replied  Abram  Petro- 
vich. 

"Look  again  at  my  arm;  here  it  is,  eh?" 
And  again  the  white  arm  had  passed  before 
his  eyes,  seeming  to  be  sorry  for  its  own  white- 
ness, and  suddenly  realizing  something  (which  he 
did  not  now  remember  or  understand),  he  had 
kissed  that  arm,  and  Abram  Petrovich  had 
proudly  cried : 

"Indeed,  brother,  death  before  surrender!" 
And  then  something  dirty  whirling  round  and 
round,    howls,    whistles,    and    jumping    lights. 


152  IN  THE  BASEMENT 

Then  he  had  felt  cheerful,  but  now  when  death 
was  hiding  in  the  corners,  and  when  day  was 
rushing  in  upon  him  from  every  direction  with 
the  inexorable  necessity  to  live  and  do  something, 
to  struggle  after  something  and  ask  for  some- 
thing— he  felt  tortured  and  inexpressibly  fright- 
ened. 

"Are  you  asleep,  sir?"  Abram  Petrovich  in- 
quired sarcastically  through  the  door,  and  receiv- 
ing no  answer,  added: 

''Well,  then,  sleep  away;  devil  take  you!" 

Many  acquaintances  visited  Abram  Petrovich, 
and  throughout  the  day  the  door  squeaked  on  its 
hinges,  and  bass  voices  were  to  be  heard.  And 
it  seemed  to  Khinyakov  at  every  sound  that  they 
were  coming  for  him,  and  he  buried  himself  the 
deeper  in  his  bedclothes,  and  listened  long  to 
catch  to  whom  the  voice  belonged.  He  waited 
and  waited  in  agony,  trembling  all  over  his  body, 
although  there  was  no  one  in  the  whole  world 
who  would  come  to  fetch  him. 

He  had  once  had  a  wife — long  ago — but  she 
was  dead.  Still  further  back  in  the  past  he  had 
had  brothers  and  sisters,  and  still  earlier — some- 
thing indistinct  and  beautiful,  which  he  called 
Mother.  All  these  were  dead,  or  possibly  some 
one  of  them  might  be  still  alive,  only  so  lost  in 
the  wide,  wide  world,  that  he  was  as  though  dead. 
And  he  himself  would  soon  be  dead  too — he  knew 
it.  When  he  should  get  up  to-day  his  legs  would 
tremble  and  give  way  under  him,  and  his  hands 


IN  THE  BASEiMENT  153 

would  make  uncertain  strange  motions — and  this 
was  death.  But  meanwhile  he  must  need  live, 
and  that  is  such  a  serious  task  for  a  man  who  has 
neither  money,  health,  nor  wdll,  that  Khinyakov 
was  seized  with  despair.  He  threw  off  his 
blanket,  clasped  his  hands,  and  breathed  out  into 
the  void  such  prolonged  groans,  that  they  seemed 
to  proceed  from  a  thousand  suffering  breasts, 
therefore  was  it  that  they  were  so  full,  brimming 
over  with  insupportable  torture. 

"Open,  you  devil!"  cried  Dunyasha  from  the 
other  side  of  the  door,  pounding  it  with  her  fists. 
"Or  I'll  break  the  door  down! " 

Trembling  with  tottering  steps,  Khinyakov 
reached  the  door,  opened  it,  and  quickly  lay  down 
again,  nay  almost  fell,  on  his  bed.  Dunyasha, 
already  befrizzled  and  bepowdered,  sat  dow^n 
at  his  side,  shoving  him  against  the  wall,  and, 
crossing  her  legs,  said  with  an  air  of  impor- 
tance : 

"I  have  brought  you  news.  Katya  expired 
yesterday?" 

"What  Katya?"  asked  Khinyakov,  using  his 
tongue  clumsily  and  uncertainly,  as  though  it  did 
not  belong  to  him. 

"Come,  now,  you  can't  have  forgotten!" 
laughed  Dunyasha.  "The  Katya  who  used  to 
live  here.  How  can  you  have  forgotten  her,  when 
she  has  been  gone  only  a  week?" 

"Died?" 

"Why,  of  course  died,  as  all  die."     Dunyasha 


154  IN  THE  BASEMENT 

moistened  the  tip  of  her  little  finger  and  wiped  the 
powder  from  her  thin  eye-lashes. 

'^What  of?" 

''What  all  die  of.  Who  knows  what?  They 
told  me  yesterday  at  the  cafe,  Katya  was  dead." 

"Did  you  love  her?" 

''Certainly  I  loved  her!  What  are  you  talk- 
ing about!" 

Dunyasha's  stupid  eyes  looked  at  Khinyakov 
in  dull  indifference  as  she  swung  her  fat  leg. 
She  did  not  know  what  more  to  say,  and  tried 
to  look  at  him,  as  he  lay  there,  in  such  a  manner 
as  to  show  to  him  her  love,  and  with  that  intent 
she  gently  winked  her  eye,  and  dropped  the  cor- 
ners of  her  full  lips. 

The  day  had  begun. 


II 

That  day,  a  Saturday,  the  frost  was  so  severe 
that  the  boys  did  not  go  to  school,  and  the  horse- 
races were  postponed  for  fear  of  the  horses  catch- 
ing cold.  When  Natalya  Vladimirovna  came 
out  from  the  lying-in  hospital,  she  was  for  the 
first  moment  glad  that  it  was  evening,  that  there 
was  no  one  on  the  embankment,  that  none  met 
her — an  unmarried  girl,  with  a  six-day-old  child 
in  her  arms.  It  had  seemed  to  her  that,  as  soon 
as  she  should  cross  the  threshold,  she  would  be 
met  by  a  shouting,  hissing  crowd,  among  whom 


IN  THE  BASEMENT  155 

would  be  her  senile,  paralytic,  and  almost  blind 
lather,  her  acquaintances,  students,  officers  and 
their  young  ladies ;  and  that  all  these  would  point 
the  finger  at  her  and  cry: 

"There  goes  a  girl  who  has  passed  through  six 
classes  at  the  high-school,  had  acquaintances 
among  the  students  both  intellectual  and  of  good 
birth,  who  used  to  blush  at  a  word  spoken  un- 
advisedly, and  who  six  days  ago  gave  birth  to  a 
child,  in  the  lying-in  hospital,  side  by  side  with 
other  fallen  women." 

But  the  embankment  was  deserted.  Along  it 
the  icy  wind  traveled  unrestrained,  lifted  a  grey 
cloud  of  snow,  ground  by  the  frost  into  a  biting 
dust,  and  covered  with  it  everything  living  and 
dead  which  met  it  in  its  path.  With  a  gentle 
whistle  it  wove  itself  round  the  metal  pillars  of 
the  railings,  so  that  they  shone  again,  and  looked 
so  cold  and  lonely  that  it  was  a  pain  to  look  at 
them.  And  the  girl  felt  herself  to  be  just  such  a 
cold  thing,  an  outcast  from  mankind  and  life. 
She  had  on  a  little  short  jacket,  the  one  which 
she  usually  wore  skating,  and  which  she  had  hur- 
riedly thrown  on  when  she  left  her  home  suffering 
the  premonitory  pains  of  childbirth.  And  when 
the  wind  seized  her,  and  wrapped  her  thin  skirt 
about  her  ankles,  and  chilled  her  head,  she  began 
to  fear  that  she  might  be  frozen  to  death ;  and  her 
fear  of  a  crowd  disappeared,  and  the  world  ex- 
panded into  a  boundless  icy  wilderness,  in  which 
was  neither  man,  nor  light,  nor  warmth.     Two 


156  IN  THE  BASEMENT 

burning  tear-drops  gathered  in  her  eyes,  and 
froze  there.  Bending  her  head  down,  she  wiped 
them  away  with  the  formless  bundle  she  was 
carrying,  and  went  on  faster.  Now  she  no  longer 
loved  herself  nor  the  child,  and  both  lives  seemed 
to  her  worthless;  only  certain  words,  which  had, 
as  it  were,  sunk  into  her  brain,  persistently 
repeated  themselves,  and  went  before  her  call- 
ing: 

"Nyemchinovskaya  Street,  the  second  house 
from  the  corner.  Nyemchinovskaya  Street,  the 
second  house  from  the  corner." 

These  words  she  had  repeated  for  six  days  as 
she  lay  on  the  bed  and  fed  her  infant.  They 
meant,  that  she  must  go  to  Nyemchinovskaya 
Street,  where  her  foster-sister,  an  unfortunate, 
lived,  because  only  with  her  could  she  find  an 
asylum  for  herself  and  her  child.  A  year  ago, 
when  all  was  still  well  and  she  was  continually 
laughing  and  singing,  she  had  visited  Katya,  who 
was  ill,  and  had  helped  her  with  money,  and  now 
she  was  the  only  human  being  remaining  before 
whom  she  was  not  ashamed. 

^'Nyemchinovskaya  Street,  the  second  house 
from  the  corner.  Nyemchinovskaya  Street,  the 
second  house  from  the  corner." 

She  walked  on,  and  the  wind  whirled  angrily 
round  her;  and  when  she  came  upon  the  bridge 
it  greedily  dashed  at  her  bosom,  and  dug  its  iron 
nails  into  her  cold  face.  Vanquished,  it  dropped 
noisily  from  the  bridge,   and  circled  along  the 


IN  THE  BASEMENT  157 

snow-covered  surface  of  the  river,  and  again 
swept  upwards,  overshadowing  the  road  with 
cold,  trembling  wings.  Natalya  Vladimirovna 
stood  still,  and  in  utter  weakness  leaned  against 
the  rail.  From  the  depth  below  there  looked  up 
at  her  a  dull  black  eye — a  spot  of  unfrozen  water 
— and  its  gaze  was  mysterious  and  terrible.  But 
before  her  resounded  and  called  persistently  the 
words : 

"Nyemchinovskaya  Street,  the  second  house 
from  the  corner.  Nyemchinovskaya  Street,  the 
second  house  from  the  corner." 

Khinyakov  dressed,  and  lay  down  again  on  his 
bed  rolled  to  the  very  eyes  in  a  warm  overcoat,  his 
sole  remaining  possession.  The  room  was  cold, 
there  was  ice  in  the  corners,  but  he  breathed  into 
the  astrakhan  collar,  and  so  became  warm  and 
comfortable.  The  whole  long  day  he  kept  de- 
ceiving himself,  that  to-morrow  he  would  go  and 
seek  work,  and  ask  for  something ;  but  meanwhile 
he  was  content  not  to  think  at  all,  but  merely  to 
tremble  at  the  sound  of  a  raised  voice  the  other 
side  of  the  wall,  or  at  the  sound  of  a  sharply 
slammed  door.  He  had  lain  long  in  this  way, 
perfectly  still,  when  at  the  entrance  door  he  heard 
an  uneven  rapping,  timid,  and  yet  hurried  and 
sharp,  as  if  some  one  was  knocking  with  the  back 
of  the  hand.  His  room  was  the  one  next  to  the 
entrance  door,  and  by  craning  his  head  and  prick- 
ing up  his  ears  he  could  distinguish  everything 
which  took  place  near  it.     Matryona  went  to  the 


158  IN  THE  BASEMENT 

door  and  opened  it,  let  some  one  in  and  closed  it 
again.     Then  followed  an  expectant  silence. 

"Whom  do  you  want?"  asked  Matryona  in 
a  hoarse,  unfriendly  tone.  A  stranger's  voice, 
gentle  and  broken,  bashfully  replied: 

''I  want  Katya  Nyechayeva.     She  lives  here?" 

''She  did.     But  what  do  you  want  with  her?" 

"I  want  her  very  badly.  Is  she  not  at  home?" 
and  in  her  voice  there  was  a  note  of  fear. 

"Katya  is  dead.  She  died,  I  say — in  the  hos- 
pital." 

Again  there  was  a  long  silence,  so  long  indeed 
that  Khinyakov  felt  a  pain  at  his  back;  but  he 
did  not  dare  to  move  it,  while  the  people  there 
kept  silence. 

Then  the  stranger's  voice  pronounced  gently 
and  without  expression,  the  one  word: 

"Good-bye!" 

But  evidently  she  did  not  go  away,  since  in  the 
course  of  a  minute  Matryona  asked:  "What  have 
you  there?  Have  you  brought  something  for 
Katya?" 

Some  one  knelt  down,  striking  her  knees  on  the 
floor,  and  the  stranger's  voice,  convulsed  with 
suppressed  sobs,  uttered  quickly  the  words: 

"Take  it,  take  it!  For  the  love  of  God,  take 
it!     And  then  I — I'll  go  away." 

"But  what  is  it?" 

Again  there  was  a  long  silence,  and  then  a 
gentle  weeping,  broken,  and  hopeless.  There 
was  in  it  a  deadly  weariness,  and  a  black  despair, 


IN  THE  BASEMENT  159 

without  a  single  gleam  of  hope.  It  was  as  though 
a  hand  had  impotently  drawn  the  bow  across  the 
over-tightened,  the  last  remaining,  string  of  an 
expensive  instrument,  and  when  the,  string 
snapped  the  soft  wailing  note  had  been  silenced 
for  ever. 

"Why,  you  have  nearly  smothered  it!"  ex- 
claimed Matryona  in  a  rough,  angry  tone.  "You 
see  what  sort  of  people  undertake  to  bear  chil- 
dren. How  could  you  do  it?  Whoever  would 
wrap  up  babies  like  that?  Come  now,  come 
along;  do,  I  say.  How  could  you  do  such  a 
thing?" 

Once  more  all  was  silent  near  the  door. 

Khinyakov  listened  a  little  longer  and  then  lay 
down,  delighted  that  no  one  had  come  to  fetch 
him,  and  not  taking  the  trouble  to  guess  the  truth 
about  what  he  had  not  understood  in  that  which 
had  just  taken  place.  He  began  already  to  feel 
the  approach  of  night,  and  wished  that  some  one 
would  turn  the  lamp  up  higher.  He  became  rest- 
less, and,  clenching  his  teeth,  he  endeavoured  to 
restrain  his  thoughts.  In  the  past  there  was 
nothing  but  mire,  falls,  and  horror,  and — there 
was  the  same  horror  in  the  future.  He  was  just 
beginning  by  degrees  to  snuggle  himself  together, 
and  draw  up  his  hands  and  feet,  when  Dunyasha 
came  in,  dressed  to  go  out  in  a  red  blouse,  and 
already  slightly  intoxicated.  She  plopped  down 
on  the  bed,  and  said  with  a  gesture  of  surprise : 

"Oh  Lord!"     She  shook  her  head  and  smiled. 


i6o  IN  THE  BASEMENT 

*'They  have  brought  a  little  baby  here.  Such  a 
tiny  one,  my  friend,  but  he  shouts  just  like  a 
police-inspector.     Just  like  a  police-inspector!" 

She  swore  whimsically,  and  coquettishly 
flipped  Khinyakov's  nose. 

"Let's  go  and  see.  Why  not,  indeed!  Yes, 
we'll  just  take  a  look  at  him.  Matryona  is  go- 
ing to  bathe  it;  she  is  boiling  the  samovar. 
Abram  Petrovich  is  blowing  up  the  charcoal  with 
his  boot.  How  funny  it  all  is.  And  the  baby  is 
crying:  'Wa,  wa,  wa!'  " 

Dunyasha  made  a  face  which  she  meant  to 
represent  the  baby,  and  again  went  on  puling: 
" 'Wa,  wa,  wa!'  Just  like  a  police-inspector! 
Let's  go.  Don't  you  want  to? — well,  then  devil 
take  you!  Turn  up  your  toes  where  you  are, 
rotten  egg,  you!" 

And  she  danced  out  of  the  room.  But  half  an 
hour  after  Khinyakov,  tottering  on  his  weak  legs 
and  hanging  on  to  the  doorposts,  hesitatingly 
opened  the  door  of  the  kitchen. 

"Shut  it!  You've  made  a  draught,"  cried 
Abram  Petrovich. 

Khinyakov  hastily  slammed  the  door  behind 
him,  and  looked  round  apologetically;  but  no  one 
took  any  notice  of  him,  so  he  calmed  down.  The 
combined  heat  of  the  stove,  the  urn,  and  the  com- 
pany made  the  kitchen  pretty  warm,  and  the 
vapour  rose,  and  then  rolled  down  the  colder 
walls  in  thick  drops.  Matryona  with  a  severe 
and  irritated  mien  was  washing  the  child  in  a 


IN  THE  BASEMENT  161 

trough,  and  with  pock-marked  hands  was  splash- 
ing the  w^ater  over  him,  while  she  crooned : 

''Little  lambkin,  then,  it  s'all  be  clean.  It 
s'all  be  white." 

Whether  it  was  because  the  kitchen  was  light 
and  cheerful,  or  because  the  water  was  warm  and 
caressing,  at  all  events  the  child  was  quiet,  and 
wrinkled  up  its  little  red  face  as  though  about 
to  sneeze.  Dunyasha  looked  at  the  tub  over  Ma- 
tryona's  shoulder,  and  seizing  her  opportunity, 
splashed  the  little  one  with  three  fingers. 

"Get  away!"  the  old  woman  cried  in  a  threat- 
ening tone,  "where  are  you  coming  to?  I  know 
what  to  do  without  your  help.  I  have  had  chil- 
dren of  my  own." 

"Don't  meddle.  She's  quite  right,  children  are 
such  tender  things,"  said  Abram  Petrovich,  in 
support  of  her;  "they  want  some  handling." 

He  sat  down  on  the  table,  and  with  condescend- 
ing satisfaction  contemplated  the  litle  rosy  body. 
The  baby  wriggled  its  fingers,  and  Dunyasha 
with  wild  delight  wagged  her  head  and  laughed. 

"Just  like  a  police-inspector!" 

"But  have  you  seen  a  police-inspector  in  a 
trough?"  asked  Abram  Petrovich. 

All  laughed,  and  even  Khinyakov  smiled;  but 
almost  immediately  the  smile  left  his  face  affright, 
and  he  looked  round  at  the  mother.  She  was  sit- 
ting w^earily  on  the  bench,  with  her  head  thrown 
back,  and  her  black  eyes,  abnormally  large  from 
sickness  and  suffering,  lighted  up  with  a  peace- 


i62  IN  THE  BASEMENT 

ful  gleam,  and  on  her  pale  lips  hovered  the  proud 
smile  of  a  mother.  And  when  he  saw  this  Khin- 
yakov  burst  into  a  solitary,  belated  laugh: 

''He!   he!   he!" 

He  even  looked  proudly  round  on  all  sides. 
Matryona  took  the  baby  out  of  the  tub,  and 
wrapped  it  in  a  bath-sheet.  The  child  burst  into 
loud  crying,  but  was  soon  quieted  again,  and 
Matryona,  unrolling  the  sheet,  smiled  in  confu- 
sion, and  said: 

''What  a  dear  little  body,  just  like  velvet." 

"Let  me  feel,"  entreated  Dunyasha. 

"What  next!" 

Dunyasha  began  suddenly  to  tremble  all  over, 
and  stamped  her  feet ;  choking  with  longing,  and 
mad  with  the  desire,  which  overwhelmed  her,  she 
cried  in  such  a  shrill  voice  as  none  had  ever  heard 
from  her: 

"Let  me!   let  me!" 

"Yes,  let  her,"  entreated  Natalya  Vladimi- 
rovna  in  a  fright.  And  Dunyasha  just  as  sud- 
denly became  quiet  again.  She  cautiously 
touched  the  child's  little  shoulder  with  two  fingers, 
and  following  her  example,  Abram  Petrovich, 
with  a  condescending  wink,  also  reached  out  to 
that  little  red  shoulder. 

"Yes,  indeed,  children  are  tender  things,"  said 
he  in  self-justification. 

Last  of  all  Khinyakov  tried  it.  His  fingers 
felt  for  a  moment  the  touch  of  something  living, 
downy  like  velvet,  and  withal  so  tender  and  feeble 


IN  THE  BASEMENT  163 

that  his  fingers  seemed  no  longer  to  belong  to  him, 
and  became  as  tender  as  the  something  he  touched. 
And  thus,  craning  their  necks,  and  unconsciously 
lighting  up  into  a  smile  of  strange  happiness, 
stood  the  three,  the  thief,  the  prostitute,  and  the 
lonely  broken  man,  and  that  little  life,  feeble  as 
a  distant  light  on  the  steppe,  was  vaguely  calling 
them  somewhither,  and  promising  them  some- 
thing beautiful,  bright,  immortal.  And  the 
happy  mother  looked  proudly  on,  while  above  the 
low  ceiling  the  house  rose  in  a  heavy  mass  of 
stone,  and  in  the  upper  flats  the  rich  sauntered 
about,  and  yawned  with  ennui. 

Night  had  come  on,  black,  malign,  as  all  nights 
are,  and  had  pitched  her  tent  in  darkness  over  the 
distant  snowy  fields;  and  the  lonely  branches  of 
trees  became  chilled  with  fear,  just  those  branches 
which  first  welcomed  the  morning  sun.  With 
feeble  artificial  light  man  fought  against  her,  but 
strong  and  malign  she  girded  the  isolated  lights 
in  a  hopeless  circle,  and  filled  the  hearts  of  men 
with  darkness.  And  in  many  a  heart  she  extin- 
guished the  feeble  flickering  sparks. 

Khinyakov  did  not  sleep.  Huddled  up  to- 
gether into  a  little  ball,  he  hid  himself  under  a 
soft  heap  of  rags  from  the  cold  and  from  the  night, 
and  wept,  without  effort,  without  pain  or  convul- 
sion, as  those  weep  whose  heart  is  pure  and  with- 
out sin,  as  the  heart  of  a  little  child.  He  pitied 
himself  huddled  up  into  a  heap,  and  it  seemed 
to  him  that  he  pitied  all  mankind  and  the  whole 


i64  IN  THE  BASEMENT 

of  human  life,  and  in  this  feeling  there  was  a 
secret,  profound  gladness.  He  saw  the  child, 
just  born,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  himself 
was  reborn  to  a  new  life,  and  would  live  long,  and 
that  his  life  would  be  beautiful.  He  loved  and 
yet  pitied  this  new  life,  and  he  felt  so  happy, 
that  he  laughed  so  that  he  shook  the  heap  of 
rags,  and  then  asked  himself: 

''Why  am  I  weeping?" 

But  he  could  not  discover  the  answer  to  his 
own  question,  and  so  replied: 

"So!" 

And  such  a  profound  thought  was  conveyed 
by  this  short  word,  that  this  wreck  of  a  man, 
whose  life  was  so  pitiable  and  lonely,  was  con- 
vulsed with  a  fresh  burst  of  scalding  tears. 

But  at  his  bedside  rapacious  death  was  noise- 
lessly taking  its  seat,  and  waiting — quietly,  pa- 
tiently, persistently. 


THE  CITY 

It  was  an  immense  city  in  which  they  lived: 
Petrov,  clerk  in  a  commercial  bank,  and  he,  the 
other, — name  unknown. 

They  used  to  meet  once  a  year,  at  Easter,  when 
they  both  went  to  pay  a  visit  at  one  and  the  same 
house,  that  of  the  Vasilyevskys.  Petrov  used  to 
pay  a  visit  also  at  Christmas,  but  probably  the 
other,  whom  he  used  to  meet,  came  at  Christmas 
at  a  different  hour,  and  so  they  did  not  see  one 
another.  The  first  two  or  three  times  Petrov  did 
not  notice  him  among  so  many  visitors,  but  the 
fourth  year  his  face  seemed  known  to  him  and 
they  greeted  one  another  with  a  smile — and  the 
fifth  year  Petrov  proposed  to  clink  glasses  with 
him. 

"Your  health!"  he  said  politely,  and  held  out 
his  glass. 

''Here's  to  yours!"  the  other  replied  with  a 
smile,  and  he  too  held  out  his  glass. 

Petrov  did  not  think  of  asking  his  name,  and 
when  he  went  out  into  the  street  he  quite  forgot 
his  existence,  and  the  whole  year  never  thought 
of  him  again.  Every  day  he  went  to  the  bank, 
where  he  had  been  employed  for  nine  years;  in 
the  winter  he  occasionally  went  to  the  theatre;  in 

165 


i66  THE  CITY 

the  summer  he  visited  at  the  bungalow  of  an  ac- 
quaintance; and  twice  he  was  ill  with  the  in- 
fluenza— the  second  time  immediately  before 
Easter. 

And  just  as  he  was  mounting  the  stairs  at  the 
Vasilyevskys',  in  evening  dress  and  with  his 
opera-hat  under  his  arm,  he  remembered  that  he 
would  see  him  there,  the  other,  and  felt  very  much 
surprised  that  he  could  not  in  the  least  recall  his 
face  and  figure.  Petrov  himself  was  below  the 
average  height  and  somewhat  round-shouldered, 
so  that  many  took  him  for  a  hunchback;  he  had 
large  black  eyes  with  yellowish  whites.  In  other 
respects  he  did  not  differ  from  the  rest,  who  paid 
a  visit  to  the  Vasilyevskys  twice  a  year,  and  when 
they  forgot  his  surname  they  used  to  speak  of 
him  as  the  ''little  hunchback." 

He,  the  other,  was  already  there,  and  on  the 
point  of  going  away;  but  when  he  recognized 
Petrov,  he  smiled  politely,  and  remained.  He 
was  also  in  evening  dress  and  had  an  opera-hat, 
and  Petrov  failed  to  examine  him  further  since 
he  was  occupied  with  talking,  and  eating,  and 
drinking  tea. 

They  went  out  together,  and  helped  one  another 
on  with  their  coats,  like  friends:  they  politely 
made  way  the  one  for  the  other,  and  each  gave  the 
porter  a  half-rouble.  They  stood  still  a  short 
time  in  the  street,  and  then  he,  the  other,  said: 

''Well,  tipping's  become  a  regular  tax.  But  it 
can't  be  helped." 


THE  CITY  167 

Petrov  replied: 

''Yes,  quite  true." 

And  since  there  was  nothing  more  to  be  said, 
they  smiled  in  a  friendly  manner,  and  Petrov 
said: 

''Which  way  are  you  going?" 

"I  turn  to  the  left.     And  you?" 

"I  to  the  right." 

In  the  cab  Petrov  remembered  that  he  had 
again  failed  either  to  ask  his  name,  or  to  observe 
him  particularly.  He  turned  round:  carriages 
were  passing  in  both  directions,  the  pavements 
were  black  with  pedestrians,  and  in  that  closely 
moving  mass  it  was  as  impossible  to  distinguish 
him,  the  other,  as  to  find  a  particular  grain  of 
sand  amongst  other  grains.  And  again  Petrov 
forgot  him,  and  did  not  think  of  him  again  for 
a  whole  year. 

Petrov  had  lived  for  many  years  in  the  same 
furnished  apartments,  and  he  was  not  much  liked 
there,  because  he  was  grumpy  and  irritable;  and 
they  also  called  him  behind  his  back  "Humpty." 
He  used  often  to  sit  in  his  apartment  alone,  and 
none  knew  what  work  he  did,  since  Fedot,  the  up- 
stairs servant,  did  not  look  on  books  and  letters 
as  "work."  At  night  Petrov  sometimes  went  for 
a  walk,  and  Ivan  the  porter  could  not  understand 
these  walks,  since  Petrov  always  returned  sober, 
and — alone. 

But  Petrov  used  to  walk  about  at  night,  because 
he  was  very  much  afraid  of  the  city  in  which  he 


i68  THE  CITY 

lived,  and  he  feared  it  more  than  ever  in  the  day- 
time, when  the  streets  were  full  of  people. 

The  city  was  immense  and  populous,  and  there 
was  in  its  populousness  and  immensity  something 
stubborn,  unconquerable,  and  callously  cruel. 
With  the  colossal  weight  of  its  bloated  stone 
houses,  it  crushed  the  earth  on  which  it  stood ;  and 
the  streets  between  the  houses  were  narrow, 
crooked,  and  deep  like  fissures  in  a  rock.  It 
seemed  as  though  they  were  all  seized  with  a  panic 
of  fear,  and  were  endeavouring  to  run  away  from 
the  centre  to  the  open  country,  and  that  they  could 
not  find  the  road,  and  losing  their  way  had  rolled 
themselves  in  a  ball  like  a  serpent,  and  were  inter- 
secting one  another,  and  looking  back  in  hopeless 
despair. 

One  might  walk  for  hours  about  these  streets, 
which  seemed  broken-down,  choked,  and  faint 
with  a  terrible  convulsion,  and  never  emerge  from 
the  line  of  fat  stone  houses.  Some  high,  others 
low,  some  flushed  with  the  cold  thin  blood  of  new 
bricks,  others  painted  with  a  dark  or  light  colour, 
they  stood  in  unswaying  solidity  on  both  sides, 
callously  met,  and  personally  conducted  one,  and 
pressing  together  in  a  dense  crowd,  in  this  direc- 
tion and  in  that,  lost  their  individuality  and  be- 
come like  one  another — and  the  walker  grew 
frightened:  it  was  as  though  he  had  become 
rooted  to  the  spot,  and  the  houses  kept  going  past 
him  in  an  endless  truculent  file. 

Once  Petrov  was  walking  quietly  about  the 


THE  CITY  169 

street,  when  suddenly  he  felt  what  a  thickness  of 
stone  houses  separated  him  from  the  wide,  open 
country,  where  the  free  earth  breathed  softly  in 
the  sunshine,  and  man's  eyes  might  look  round  to 
the  distant  horizon. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  suffocating  and 
being  blinded,  and  he  felt  a  desire  to  run  and  get 
quickly  out  from  the  stony  embrace — and  it  be- 
came a  horror  to  him  to  think,  however  fast  he 
might  run,  still  houses,  ever  houses,  would  go 
with  him  on  both  sides,  and  he  would  be  suffo- 
cated before  he  could  run  beyond  the  city.  Pet- 
rov  ensconced  himself  in  the  first  restaurant  he 
came  across,  but  even  there  he  seemed  for  a  long 
time  to  be  suffocating;  so  he  drank  cold  water, 
and  wiped  his  eyes  with  his  handkerchief. 

But  the  most  terrible  thing  of  all  was,  that  in 
all  the  houses  there  lived  human  beings,  and  about 
all  the  streets  were  moving  human  beings.  There 
were  a  multitude  of  them,  and  all  of  them  were 
unknown  to  him — strangers;  and  all  of  them 
lived  their  own  separate  life,  hidden  from  the  eyes 
of  others;  they  were  without  interruption  being 
born,  and  dying,  and  there  was  no  beginning  nor 
end  to  this  stream.  Whenever  Petrov  went  to  the 
bank,  or  out  for  a  walk,  he  saw  the  same  familiar, 
well-known  houses,  and  everything  appeared  to 
him  simply  an  old  acquaintance;  if,  however,  he 
stood  still,  but  for  a  moment,  to  fix  his  attention 
on  some  face,  then  all  was  quickly  and  terribly 
changed.     With  a  feeling  of  terror  and  impo- 


lyo  THE  CITY 

tence  Petrov  would  look  at  all  the  faces,  and  un- 
derstand that  he  saw  them  for  the  first  time,  that 
yesterday  he  had  seen  other  people,  and  to-mor- 
row would  see  yet  others;  and  so  always,  every 
day,  and  every  minute,  he  would  see  new,  un- 
known faces.  There  was  a  stout  gentleman,  at 
whom  Petrov  glanced,  disappearing  round  the 
corner — and  never  would  Petrov  see  him  again. 
Even  if  he  wished  to  find  him,  he  might  search 
for  him  all  his  life,  and  never  succeed. 

And  Petrov  feared  the  immense,  callous  city. 

This  year  again  Petrov  had  the  influenza,  very 
severely  with  a  complication,  and  he  was  fre- 
quently afflicted  with  cold  in  the  head. 

Moreover,  the  doctor  found  that  he  had  catarrh 
of  the  stomach,  and  the  next  Easter,  as  he  was 
going  to  the  Vasilyevskys',  he  thought  on  the  way 
of  what  he  should  eat  there.  When  he  recognized 
him,  the  other,  he  was  pleased  and  informed  him: 

"My  dear  sir,  I  have  a  catarrh. '^ 

He,  the  other,  shook  his  head  sympathetically, 
and  replied: 

''You  don't  say  so!'' 

And  once  more  Petrov  did  not  inquire  his 
name,  but  he  began  to  look  upon  him  as  quite 
an  old  acquaintance,  and  thought  of  him  with 
pleasurable  feelings.  "Him,"  he  named  him, 
but  when  he  wanted  to  recall  his  face,  he  could 
only  conjure  up  an  evening  coat,  white  waist- 
coat, and  a  smile;  and  since  he  could  not  in  the 
least  recollect  the  face,  it  inevitably  appeared  as 


THE  CITY  171 

though  the  coat  and  waistcoat  smiled.  That 
summer  Petrov  went  out  very  frequently  to  a  cer- 
tain bungalow,  wore  a  red  neck-tie,  dyed  his 
moustache,  and  said  to  Fedot  that  in  the  autumn 
he  should  change  his  quarters ;  but  afterwards  he 
gave  up  going  to  the  bungalow,  and  took  to  drink 
for  a  whole  month.  He  managed  his  drinking 
clumsily — with  tears  and  scenes.  Once  he  broke 
the  mirror  in  his  room ;  another  time  he  frightened 
a  certain  lady.  He  invaded  her  apartment  in 
the  evening,  fell  on  his  knees  and  proposed  to 
her.  This  fair  unknown  was  a  courtesan,  and  at 
first  listened  to  him  attentively  and  even  laughed, 
but  when  he  began  to  weep  and  complain  of  his 
loneliness,  she  took  him  for  a  madman,  and  began 
to  scream  with  terror.  As  they  led  him  away, 
supporting  himself  against  Fedot,  he  pulled  his 
hair  and  cried: 

'We  are  all  men,  all  brethren ! " 

They  had  decided  to  get  rid  of  him;  but  he 
gave  up  drinking,  and  once  more  the  porter  swore 
at  having  to  open  and  shut  the  door  for  him.  At 
New  Year  Petrov  received  an  increase  of  100 
roubles  per  annum,  and  he  changed  into  a  neigh- 
bouring apartment,  which  was  five  roubles  dearer, 
and  had  windows  looking  into  the  courtyard, 
Petrov  thought  that  there  he  would  not  hear  the 
rumbling  of  the  street  traffic,  and  might  even  for- 
get what  a  multitude  of  unknowTi  strangers  sur- 
rounded him,  and  lived  their  own  particular  lives 
in  proximity  to  him. 


172  THE  CITY 

In  the  winter  it  was  quiet  in  his  rooms,  but 
when  spring  came,  and  the  snow  was  removed 
from  the  streets,  the  rumble  of  the  traffic  began 
again,  and  the  double  walls  were  no  protection 
from  it. 

In  the  daytime,  while  he  was  occupied  with 
something,  and  himself  moved  about  and  made  a 
noise,  he  did  not  notice  the  rumbling,  though  it 
never  ceased  for  a  moment;  but  when  night  came 
on  and  all  became  quiet  in  the  house,  then  the 
noisy  street  forced  its  way  into  the  dark  chamber, 
and  deprived  it  of  all  quiet  and  privacy.  The 
jarring  and  disjointed  sounds  of  individual  ve- 
hicles were  heard;  an  indistinct,  slight  sound 
would  come  to  life  somewhere  in  the  distance, 
grow  louder  and  clearer,  and  by  degrees  lie  down 
again,  and  in  its  place  would  be  heard  a  new  one, 
and  so  on  and  on  without  intermission.  Some- 
times only  the  hoofs  of  the  horses  struck  the 
ground  evenly  and  rhythmically,  and  there  was 
no  sound  of  wheels — this  was  when  a  caleche 
went  by  on  rubber  tyres;  but  often  the  noise  of 
individual  vehicles  would  blend  into  a  terrible 
loud  rumble,  w^hich  made  the  stone  walls  tremble 
slightly,  and  set  the  bottles  vibrating  in  the  cup- 
board. And  all  this  was  caused  by  human  be- 
ings! They  sat  in  hired  and  private  carriages, 
they  drove  no  one  knew  whence  or  whither,  they 
disappeared  into  the  unknown  depths  of  the  im- 
mense city,  and  in  their  place  appeared  fresh  peo- 
ple, other  human  beings,  and  there  was  no  end  to 


THE  CITY  173 

this  incessant  movement,  so  terrible  in  its  in- 
cessancy.  And  every  passer-by  was  a  separate 
microcosm,  with  his  own  rules  and  aims  of  life, 
with  his  own  affinity,  whom  he  loved,  with  his 
own  separate  joys  and  sorrows,  and  each  was  like 
a  ghost,  which  appeared  for  a  moment  and 
then  disappeared  inexplicably  and  unrecognized. 
And  the  more  people  there  were,  who  were  un- 
known to  one  another,  the  more  terrible  became 
the  solitude  of  each.  And  during  those  black, 
rumbling  nights  Petrov  often  felt  inclined  to  cry 
out  in  fear,  and  to  betake  himself  to  the  deep  cel- 
lar, in  order  to  be  there  perfectly  alone.  There 
one  might  think  only  of  those  one  knew,  and  not 
feel  oneself  so  infinitely  alone  among  a  multitude 
of  strange  people. 

At  Easter,  he,  the  other,  did  not  turn  up  at  the 
Vasilyevskys',  and  Petrov  did  not  observe  his 
absence  until  the  end  of  his  call,  when  he  had 
begun  to  make  his  adieux,  and  failed  to  meet  the 
well-known  smile.  And  he  felt  a  disquiet  at 
heart,  and  suddenly  was  conscious  of  a  painful 
longing  to  see  him,  the  other,  and  to  say  some- 
thing to  him  about  his  loneliness  and  his  nights. 
But  he  had  only  a  very  slight  recollection  of  the 
man  whom  he  sought ;  only  that  he  was  of  middle 
age,  fair  apparently,  and  always  in  evening  dress; 
but  by  this  description  the  Vasilyevskys  could  not 
guess  of  whom  he  was  speaking. 

"So  many  people  pay  us  a  visit  on  Festivals, 
that  we  do  not  know  the  surnames  of  all,"  said 


174  THE  CITY 

Madame.      "However was    it    Syomenov?" 

And  she  counted  one  by  one  on  her  fingers 
several  surnames:  ''Smirnov,  Antonov,  Niki- 
phorov;"  and  then  without  the  surname:  "The 
bald  man,  in  the  civil  service,  the  post  office  I 
think ;  the  one  with  the  light  brown  hair ;  the  one 
quite  grey."  And  none  of  them  were  the  one 
after  whom  Petrov  was  inquiring — though  they 
might  have  been.  And  so  he  was  not  discovered. 
This  year  nothing  particular  happened  in  the 
life  of  Petrov,  except  that  his  eyesight  deterior- 
ated and  he  had  to  take  to  glasses.  At  night, 
when  the  weather  was  fine,  he  went  walking,  and 
chose  the  quiet,  deserted  bye-streets  for  his  pere- 
grinations. But  even  there  people  were  to  be  met, 
whom  he  had  never  seen  before,  and  never  would 
see  again;  and  the  houses  towered  on  either  side 
in  a  dull  wall,  and  inside  they  were  full  of  per- 
sons utterly  unknown  to  him,  who  slept,  and 
talked  and  quarrelled:  some  one  was  dying  be- 
hind those  walls,  and  close  to  him  a  fresh  human 
being  was  coming  into  the  world,  to  be  lost  for 
a  time  in  its  ever-moving  infinity,  and  then  to 
die  for  ever.  In  order  to  console  himself,  Petrov 
would  count  over  all  his  acquaintances ;  and  their 
neighbourly  familiar  faces  were  like  a  wall  which 
separated  him  from  infinity.  He  endeavoured 
to  remember  all;  the  porters,  shop-keeper,  cab- 
men that  he  knew,  also  passers-by  whom  he  casu- 
ally remembered;  and  at  first  he  seemed  to  know 
very  many  people,  but  when  he  began  to  count 


THE  CITY  175 

them  up,  the  number  became  terribly  small:  all 
his  life  long  he  had  only  known  250  people,  in- 
cluding him,  the  other.  And  these  were  all  who 
w^ere  known  and  neighbourly  to  him  in  the  world. 
Possibly  there  were  people  whom  he  had  known, 
and  forgotten;  but  that  was  just  as  though  they 
did  not  exist. 

He,  the  other,  was  very  glad,  when  he  recog- 
nized Petrov  the  next  Easter.  He  had  a  new 
dress  suit  on,  and  new  boots  which  creaked,  and 
he  said  as  he  pressed  Petrov's  hand : 

"But,  you  know,  I  almost  died.  I  was  seized 
with  inflammation  of  the  lungs,  and  even  now 
there  is  there" — and  he  tapped  himself  on  the 
side — "something  the  matter  with  the  upper  part, 
I  believe." 

"I'm  sorry  for  you,"  said  Petrov  with  sincere 
sympathy. 

They  talked  about  various  ailments,  and  each 
spoke  of  his  own,  and  when  they  separated  they 
did  so  with  a  prolonged  pressure  of  the  hand, 
but  they  quite  forgot  to  ask  each  other's  name. 
The  following  Easter  it  was  Petrov  who  did  not 
put  in  an  appearance  at  the  Vasilyevskys',  and 
he,  the  other,  was  much  disquieted,  and  inquired 
of  Madame  Vasilyevsky  who  the  little  hunchback 
was  who  visited  them. 

"I  know  what  his  surname  is,"  said  she,  "it 
is  Petrov." 

"But  what  are  his  Christian  name  and  his 
father's?" 


176  THE  CITY 

Madame  Vasilyevsky  would  willingly  have 
told  his  name,  but  it  seems  she  did  not  know  it, 
and  was  very  much  surprised  at  the  fact. 
Neither  did  she  know  in  what  office  Petrov  was, 
perhaps  the  post  office  or  some  bank. 

The  next  time  he,  the  other,  did  not  appear. 

The  time  after  both  came,  but  at  different 
hours,  so  they  did  not  meet.  And  then  they  al- 
together left  off  putting  in  an  appearance,  and 
the  Vasilyevskys  never  saw  them  again,  and  did 
not  even  give  them  a  thought ;  for  so  many  people 
visited  them,  and  they  could  not  possibly  remem- 
ber them  all. 

The  immense  city  grew  still  bigger,  and  there, 
where  the  broad  fields  had  stretched,  irrepressible 
new  streets  lengthened  out,  and  on  both  sides  of 
them  stout,  multi-coloured  stone  houses  crushed 
heavily  the  ground  on  which  they  stood.  And  to 
the  seven  cemeteries  which  had  before  existed  in 
the  city  was  added  a  new  one,  the  eighth.  In 
it  there  was  no  greenery  at  all,  and  meanwhile 
they  buried  in  it  only  paupers. 

And  when  the  long  autumn  night  drew  on,  it 
became  still  in  the  cemetery,  and  there  reached  it 
only  in  distant  echoes  the  rumbling  of  the  street 
traffic,  which  ceased  not  day  nor  night. 


THE  MARSEILLAISE 

He  was  a  nonentity,  with  the  soul  of  a  hare 
and  the  shameless  endurance  of  a  beast  of  bur- 
den. When  the  malicious  irony  of  fate  cast  his 
lot  in  among  our  black  ranks,  we  laughed  like 
maniacs  at  the  thought  that  such  absurd  inept 
mistakes  could  actually  be  made.  As  for  him, 
well — he  cried.  And  never  have  I  met  with  a 
man  of  so  many  tears,  flowing  so  freely — from 
eyes  and  nose  and  mouth.  He  was  like  a  sponge 
saturated  with  water,  and  then  squeezed.  In 
our  ranks  I  have  seen,  indeed,  men  who  wept, 
but  then  their  tears  were  fire,  from  which  even 
fierce  wild  beasts  would  run  away.  These  manly 
tears  aged  the  faces,  but  made  the  eyes  young 
again.  Like  lava  released  from  the  red-hot 
bowels  of  the  earth,  they  burnt  an  indelible  track, 
and  buried  under  themselves  whole  cities  of 
worthless  devices  and  shallow  cares.  But  when 
this  fellow  began  to  weep,  only  his  nose  grew  red, 
and  his  handkerchief  became  wet.  Probably  he 
used  to  hang  out  his  handkerchiefs  on  a  line  to 
dry;  how  otherwise  could  he  have  supplied  him- 
self with  so  many? 

During  the  whole  time  of  exile  he  was  con- 
tinually applying  to  the  authorities,  real  and  im- 

177 


178  THE  MARSEILLAISE 

aginary,  bowing,  and  weeping,  and  swearing 
that  he  was  innocent,  entreating  them  to  have 
pity  upon  his  youth,  and  promising  all  his  life 
never  to  open  his  mouth  except  in  petition  and 
gratitude.  But  they  laughed  at  him,  even  as  did 
w^e,  and  called  him  "the  wretched  little  pig,"  and 
would  call  out  to  him: 

'Tiggy,  come  here!" 

And  he  would  obediently  run  to  their  cell,  ex- 
pecting each  time  to  hear  news  of  his  restoration 
to  his  native  land.  But  they  were  only  joking. 
They  knew,  as  well  as  we  did,  that  he  was  inno- 
cent. But  they  thought  by  his  torments  to  in- 
timidate other  little  pigs,  as  though  they  were  not 
cowardly  enough  already.  He  would  also  come 
to  us,  impelled  by  an  animal  dread  of  solitude. 
But  our  faces  were  stern,  and  locked  against  him, 
and  in  vain  he  sought  for  the  key.  At  an  utter 
loss  what  to  do,  he  would  call  us  his  dear  com- 
rades and  friends.  But  we  would  shake  our 
heads  and  say: 

"Look  out!     Some  one  will  hear  you!" 

And  he  was  not  ashamed  to  glance  round  at 
the  door — the  little  pig! 

Well!  Could  we  possibly  contain  ourselves? 
No,  we  laughed  with  mouths  long  accustomed  to 
laughter.  Then  he,  emboldened  and  comforted, 
would  sit  down  nearer  to  us,  and  converse,  and 
weep  about  his  dear  books,  which  he  had  left  upon 
the  table,  and  about  his  mamma  and  little  broth- 


THE  MARSEILLAISE  179 

ers,  of  whom  he  did  not  know  w^hether  they  were 
alive  or  dead  of  fear  and  grief. 

Towards  the  end  we  refused  to  associate  with 
him  any  longer.  When  the  hunger-strike  began 
he  w^as  seized  with  terror — the  most  inexpressibly 
comical  terror.  He  was  evidently  very  fond  of 
his  stomach,  poor  little  pig,  and  he  was  terribly 
afraid  of  his  dear  comrades,  and  also  of  the 
authorities.  He  wandered  about  among  us  in 
a  state  of  perturbation,  continually  passing  his 
handkerchief  over  his  forehead,  upon  which 
something  had  exuded — was  it  tears  or  perspira- 
tion? Then  he  asked  me  in  an  irresolute  man- 
ner: 

"Shall  you  starve  long?" 

"For  a  long  time,"  I  sternly  replied. 

"But  will  you  not  eat  anything  on  the  sly?" 

"Our  mammas  will  send  us  pies,"  I  acquiesced 
in  all  seriousness.  He  looked  at  me  in  doubt, 
nodded  his  head  and  w^nt  away  with  a  sigh. 
The  next  day,  green  as  a  paroquet  with  fear,  he 
answered : 

"Dear  comrades!  I  also  will  starve  with 
you." 

We  replied  with  one  voice:  "Starve  by  your- 
self!" 

And  he  did  starve!  We  did  not  believe  it, 
just  as  you  will  not  believe  it:  we  thought  that 
he  ate  something  on  the  sly,  and  so  too  thought 
our  guards.     And  when  towards  the  end  of  the 


i8o  THE  MARSEILLAISE 

strike  he  fell  ill  of  famine-typhus,  we  only 
shrugged  our  shoulders  and  said: 

"Poor  little  Pig!" 

But  one  of  us — he  who  never  laughed — said 
grimly:   "He  is  our  comrade,  let  us  go  to  him." 

He  was  delirious,  and  his  incoherent  ravings 
were  as  piteous  as  the  whole  of  his  life.  He 
talked  of  his  dear  books,  of  his  mamma  and 
brothers;  he  asked  for  tarts,  cold  as  ice,  tasty 
tarts;  and  he  swore  that  he  was  innocent,  and 
begged  for  pardon.  He  called  on  his  native 
country — his  dear  France,  and  damn  the  weak- 
ness of  the  human  heart!  he  rent  our  souls  with 
that  cry  of  "Dear  France." 

We  were  all  in  the  room  when  he  lay  a-dying. 
He  recovered  his  consciousness  before  death,  and 
silent  he  lay,  so  small,  so  weak;  and  silent  stood 
we  his  comrades.  We  all  to  a  man  heard  him 
say:  "When  I  am  dead  sing  over  me  the  Mar- 
seillaise." 

"What  dost  thou  say?"  we  exclaimed,  with  a 
shock  of  mingled  joy  and  rising  anger. 

He  repeated:  "When  I  am  dead  sing  over  me 
the  Marseillaise." 

And  it  happened  for  the  first  time  that  his  eyes 
were  dry,  but  we  wept,  wept  one  and  all:  and 
our  tears  burned  like  fire  from  which  fierce  wild- 
beasts  do  flee. 

He  died,  and  we  sang  over  him  the  Marseillaise. 
With  lusty  young  voices  we  sang  that  great  song 
of  freedom ;  and  threateningly  the  ocean  re-echoed 


THE  MARSEILLAISE  181 

it  to  us,  and  the  crests  of  its  waves  bore  to  his 
dear  France  pale  terror,  and  blood-red  hope. 

x\nd  he  became  ever  our  watchword,  that  non- 
entity with  the  body  of  a  hare,  and  of  a  beast  of 
burden — but  with  the  great  soul  of  a  man!  On 
your  knees,  comrades  and  friends! 

We  sang!  At  us  the  rifles  were  aimed,  while 
their  locks  clicked  ominously,  and  the  sharp 
points  of  the  bayonets  were  menacingly  turned 
towards  our  hearts.  But  ever  louder  and  more 
joyfully  resounded  the  threatening  song,  while 
the  black  coffin  swayed  in  the  tender  hands  of 
stalwarts. 

We  sang  the.  Marseillaise! 


THE  TOCSIN 


During  that  hot  and  ill-omened  summer 
ever3^hing  was  burning.  Whole  towns,  villages 
and  hamlets  were  consumed;  forests  and  fields 
were  no  longer  a  protection  to  them,  but  even  the 
forests  themselves  submissively  burst  into  flame, 
and  the  fire  spread  like  a  red  table-cloth  over  the 
parched  meadows.  During  the  day  the  dim  red 
sun  was  hidden  in  acrid  smoke,  but  at  night-time 
in  all  quarters  of  the  sky  a  quiet  red-glow  burst 
forth,  which  rocked  in  silent,  fantastic  dance; 
and  strange  confused  shadows  of  men  and  trees 
crept  over  the  ground  like  some  unknown  species 
of  reptile.  The  dogs  ceased  their  welcoming 
bark,  which  from  afar  calls  to  the  traveller  and 
promises  him  a  roof  and  hospitality,  and  either 
uttered  a  prolonged  melancholy  howl,  or  crept 
into  the  cellar  in  sullen  silence.  And  men,  like 
dogs,  looked  at  one  another  with  evil,  frightened 
eyes,  and  spoke  aloud  of  arson,  and  secret  incen- 
diaries. Indeed,  in  one  remote  village  they  had 
killed  an  old  man  who  could  not  give  a  satisfac- 
tory account  of  his  movements,  and  then  the  wo- 
men had  wept  over  the  murdered  man,  and  pitied 
his  grey  beard  all  matted  with  dark  blood. 

182 


THE  TOCSIN  183 

During  this  hot  and  ill-omened  summer  I  lived 
at  the  house  of  a  country  squire,  where  were  many 
women,  young  and  old.  By  day  we  worked  and 
talked,  and  thought  little  of  conflagrations,  but 
when  night  came  on  we  were  seized  with  fear. 
The  owner  of  the  property  was  often  absent  in 
the  town.  Then  for  whole  nights  we  slept  not 
a  wink,  but  in  fear  and  trembling  made  our 
rounds  of  the  homestead  in  search  of  an  incen- 
diary. We  huddled  close  together  and  spoke  in 
whispers;  but  the  night  was  still,  and  the  build- 
ings stood  out  in  dark,  unfamiliar  masses.  They 
seemed  to  us  as  strange,  as  if  we  had  never  seen 
them  before,  and  terribly  unstable,  as  though  they 
were  expecting  the  fire  and  were  already  ripe  for 
it.  Once,  through  a  crack  in  the  wall,  there 
gleamed  before  us  something  bright.  It  was  the 
sky,  but  we  thought  it  was  a  fire,  and  with 
screams  the  womenkind  rushed  to  me,  who  was 
still  almost  a  boy,  and  entreated  my  protection. 

But  I — held  my  breath  for  fear,  and  could  not 
move  a  step. 

Sometimes  in  the  depth  of  night  I  would  rise 
from  my  hot,  tumbled  bed  and  creep  through  the 
window  into  the  garden.  It  was  an  ancient,  for- 
mal and  stately  garden,  so  protected  that  it  an- 
swered the  very  fiercest  storm  w^ith  nothing  more 
than  a  suppressed  drone.  Below  it  was  dark  and 
deadly  still  as  at  the  bottom  of  an  abyss;  but 
above  there  was  a  continual  indistinct  rustling 
and  sound,  like  the  far-off  speech  of  the  steppe. 


i84  THE  TOCSIN 

Concealing  myself  from  some  one,  who  seemed 
to  be  following  at  my  heels,  and  looking  over  my 
shoulder,  I  would  make  my  way  to  the  end  of  the 
garden,  where  upon  a  high  bank  stood  a  wattle- 
fence,  and  beyond  the  fence  far  below  extended 
fields  and  forests  and  hamlets  hidden  in  the  dark- 
ness. Lofty,  gloomy,  silent  lime-trees  opened  out 
before  me,  and  between  their  thick  black  stems, 
through  the  interstices  of  the  fence,  and  through 
the  space  between  the  leaves  I  could  see  something 
terrible,  extraordinary,  which  would  fill  my  heart 
with  an  uneasy  dread  feeling,  and  make  my  legs 
twitch  with  a  slight  tremor.  I  could  see  the  sky, 
not  the  dark,  still  sky  of  night,  but  rosy-red,  such 
as  is  neither  by  day  nor  night.  The  mighty  limes 
stood  grave  and  silent,  like  men  expecting  some- 
thing, but  the  sky  was  unnaturally  rosy,  and  the 
ominous  reflection  of  the  burning  earth  beneath 
darted  in  fiery  red  spasms  about  the  sky.  And 
curling  columns  would  go  slowly  up  and  disap- 
pear in  the  height;  and  it  was  a  puzzle,  as 
strangely  unnatural  as  the  pink  colouring  of  the 
sky,  how  they  could  be  so  silent,  when  below  all 
was  gnashing  of  teeth ;  how  they  could  be  so  un- 
hurried and  stately  there  above,  when  everything 
was  tossing  in  restless  confusion  here  below. 

As  though  coming  to  themselves  the  lofty  limes 
would  all  at  once  begin  to  talk  together  with  their 
tops,  and  then  suddenly  relapse  into  silence,  con- 
gealed, as  it  were,  for  a  long  time  in  sullen  expec- 
tation.    It  would  become  still  as  at  the  bottom 


THE  TOCSIN  185 

6f  an  abyss,  while  far  behind  me  I  felt  conscious 
of  the  house  on  the  alert,  full  of  frightened  peo- 
ple; the  limes  crowded  watchfully  around  me, 
and  in  front  silently  rocked  a  rose-red  sky,  such 
as  is  not  nor  by  night  iior  day. 

And  because  I  saw  it  not  as  a  whole,  but  only 
through  the  interstices  between  the  trees,  it  was 
all  the  more  terrible  and  incomprehensible. 


II 


It  was  night  and  I  was  dosing  restlessly,  when 
there  reached  my  ear  a  dull  staccato  sound,  ris- 
ing as  it  seemed  from  below  the  ground;  it  pene- 
trated my  brain,  and  settled  there  like  a  round 
stone.  After  it  another  forced  its  way  in,  equally 
short  and  dolorous,  and  my  head  became  heavy 
and  sick,  as  though  molten  lead  were  falling  upon 
it  in  thick  drops.  The  drops  kept  boring  and 
burning  into  my  brain;  they  became  ever  more 
and  more,  and  soon  they  were  filling  my  head 
wath  a  dripping  rain  of  impetuous  staccato 
sounds. 

"Boom!  boom!  boom! "  Some  one  tall,  strong 
and  impatient  kept  jerking  out  from  afar. 

I  opened  my  eyes,  and  at  once  understood  that 
it  was  the  alarm-bell,  and  that  Slobodishtchy,  the 
next  village,  was  on  fire.  It  was  dark  in  the 
room  and  the  window  was  closed,  and  yet  at  the 
terrible  call  the  whole  room,  with  its  furniture. 


i86  THE  TOCSIN 

pictures  and  flowers,  went  out,  as  it  were,  into 
the  street,  and  no  longer  was  one  conscious  of 
wall  or  ceiling. 

I  do  not  remember  how  I  got  dressed,  and  know 
not  why  I  ran  alone  and  not  with  the  others; 
whether  it  was  that  they  forgot  me,  or  I  did  not 
remember  their  existence.  The  tocsin  called  per- 
sistently and  dully,  as  though  its  sounds  were 
falling,  not  from  the  transparent  air,  but  were 
cast  forth  from  the  immeasurable  thickness  of 
the  earth.     I  ran  on. 

Amid  the  rosy  sheen  of  the  sky  the  stars 
twinkled  above  my  head,  and  in  the  garden  it 
was  strangely  light,  such  as  is  neither  by  day, 
nor  by  majestic,  moon-lit  night,  but  when  I 
reached  the  hedge  something  bright-red,  seething, 
tossing  desperately,  looked  up  at  me  through  the 
fissures.  The  lofty  limes,  as  though  sprinkled 
with  blood,  trembled  in  their  rounded  leaves,  and 
turned  them  back  in  fear,  but  their  sound  was 
inaudible  on  account  of  the  short,  loud  strokes 
of  the  swinging  bell.  Now  the  sounds  became 
clear  and  distinct,  and  flew  Vv^th  mad  speed  like 
a  swarm  of  red-hot  stones.  They  did  not  circle 
in  the  air  like  the  doves  of  the  peaceful  angelus, 
neither  did  they  expand  in  the  caressing  waves 
of  the  solemn  call  to  prayer;  they  flew  straight 
like  grim  harbingers  of  woe,  who  have  no  time 
to  glance  backward  and  whose  eyes  are  wide  with 
terror. 

"Boom!   boom!  boom!"  they  flew  with  unre- 


THE  TOCSIN  187 

strainable  impetuosity,  the  strong  overtaking  the 
weak,  and  all  of  them  together  delving  into  the 
earth  and  piercing  the  sky. 

And,  as  straight  as  they,  I  ran  over  the  im- 
mense tilled  plain,  which  faintly  scintillated  with 
blood-red  gleams  like  the  scales  of  a  great  black 
wild-beast.  Above  my  head,  at  a  wonderful 
height,  bright  isolated  sparks  floated  by,  and  in 
front  was  one  of  those  terrible  village  conflagra- 
tions, in  which  in  one  holocaust  perish  houses, 
cattle  and  human  beings.  There  behind  the  ir-' 
regular  line  of  dark  trees  now  round,  now  sharp 
as  pikes,  the  dazzling  flame  soared  aloft,  arched 
its  neck  proudly,  like  a  maddened  horse,  leaped, 
threw  burning  flocks  from  its  midst  into  the  black 
sky,  and  then  greedily  stooped  for  fresh  prey. 
The  blood  surged  in  my  ears  wath  the  swiftness  of 
my  running,  and  my  heart  beat  loud  and  rapidly ; 
but  the  irregular  strokes  of  the  tocsin  overtook 
my  heart-beats  and  struck  me  full  on  head  and 
breast.  And  so  full  of  despair  was  it  that  it 
seemed  not  the  clanging  of  a  metal  bell,  but  as 
though  the  very  heart  of  the  much-suffering  earth 
were  beating  wildly  in  the  agony  of  death. 

"Boom!  boom!  boom!"  the  red-hot  conflagra- 
tion ejaculated.  And  it  was  difficult  to  realize 
that  the  church  belfry,  so  small  and  slight,  so 
peaceful  and  still,  like  a  maiden  in  a  pink  dress, 
could  be  giving  forth  those  loud,  despairing 
cries. 

I  kept  falling  down  on  my  hands  against  clods 


i88  THE  TOCSIN 

of  dry  earth,  which  scattered  beneath  them,  and 
again  I  would  rise  and  run  on,  and  the  fire  and 
the  summoning  sound  of  the  bell  ran  to  meet  me. 
One  could  already  hear  the  wood  crackling  as  it 
caught  fire,  and  the  many-voiced  cry  of  human 
beings  with  the  dominating  notes  of  despair  and 
terror.  And  when  the  serpent-like  hissing  of  the 
fire  ceased  for  a  moment,  a  prolonged  groaning 
became  clearly  differentiated:  it  was  the  wailing 
of  women,  and  the  bellowing  of  cattle  in  a  panic 
of  terror. 

A  swamp  intercepted  my  path.  A  wide,  weed- 
grown  swamp,  which  ran  far  to  right  and  left. 
I  went  into  the  water  up  to  my  knees,  then  to  the 
breast,  but  the  swamp  began  to  suck  me  down, 
and  I  returned  to  the  bank.  Opposite,  quite 
close,  raged  the  fire,  throwing  up  into  the  sky 
golden  sparks  like  the  burning  leaves  of  a  gigan- 
tic tree:  while  the  water  of  the  swamp  stood  out 
like  a  mirror  sparkling  with  fire  in  a  black  frame 
of  reed  and  sedge.  The  tocsin  called,  despair- 
ingly in  deadly  agony: 

"Come!  do  come  I" 


III 


I  flung  along  the  strand,  and  my  dark  shadow 
flung  after  me,  and  when  I  stooped  down  to  the 
water  to  find  a  bottom,  the  spectre  of  a  fire-red 
form  gazed  at  me  from  the  black  abyss,  and  in 


THE  TOCSIN  189 

the  distorted  lineaments  of  its  face,  and  in  its 
dishevelled  hair,  which  seemed  as  though  it  were 
lifted  up  upon  the  head  by  some  terrific  force,  I 
failed  to  recognize  myself. 

"Ah!  what  is  it?  O  Lord!"  I  prayed  with 
outstretched  hands. 

But  the  tocsin  kept  calling.  The  bell  no  longer 
entreated,  it  shouted  like  a  human  being,  and 
groaned  and  choked.  The  strokes  had  lost  their 
regularity,  and  piled  themselves  one  on  the  top 
of  the  other,  rapidly  and  without  echo;  they  died 
down,  were  reproduced  and  again  died  down. 
Once  more  I  bent  down  to  the  water,  and  along- 
side of  my  own  reflection  I  perceived  another  fiery 
spectre,  tall  and  erect,  and  to  my  horror  just  like 
a  human  being. 

"What's  that?"  I  screamed,  looking  round. 
Close  to  my  shoulder  stood  a  man  looking  at  the 
conflagration  in  silence.  His  face  was  pale,  his 
cheeks  were  covered  with  still  moist  blood,  which 
gleamed  as  it  reflected  the  fire.  He  was  dressed 
simply,  like  a  peasant.  Possibly  he  had  been  al- 
ready here  when  I  ran  up,  and  had  been  stopped 
like  myself  by  the  swamp,  or  possibly  he  may 
have  arrived  after  me;  but  at  all  events  I  had 
not  heard  his  approach,  nor  did  I  know  who  he 
was. 

"It  burns,"  said  he,  without  removing  his  eyes 
from  the  fire.  The  reflected  fire  leapt  in  them, 
and  they  seemed  large  and  glassy. 

"Who  are  you?     Where  do  you  come  from?" 


190  THE  TOCSIN 

I  asked;  "you  are  all  bloody."  With  long,  thin 
fingers  he  touched  my  cheeks,  looked  at  them, 
and  again  fixed  his  gaze  upon  the  fire. 

"It  burns,"  he  repeated,  without  paying  any 
attention  to  me.     "Everything  is  burning." 

"Do  you  know  how  to  get  there?"  I  asked, 
drawing  back.  I  guessed  that  this  was  one  of 
the  many  maniacs,  which  this  ill-omened  summer 
had  produced. 

"It  burns!"  he  replied;  "ho!  ho!  don't 
it  burn!"  he  cried,  laughing,  and  looked  at  me 
kindly,  wagging  his  head.  The  hurried  strokes 
of  the  tocsin  suddenly  stopped,  and  the  flame 
crackled  louder.  It  moved  like  a  living  thing, 
and  with  long  arms,  as  though  weary,  dragged 
itself  to  the  silent  belfry,  which  now  seemed  near 
and  tall,  and  clothed  no  longer  in  pink  but  in  red. 
Above  the  dark  loop-hole,  where  the  bells  were 
hung,  there  appeared  a  timid  quiet  tongue  of  fire, 
like  the  flame  of  a  candle,  and  was  reflected  in 
pale  rays  on  their  metal  surface.  Once  more  the 
bell  began  to  tremble,  sending  forth  its  last 
madly-despairing  cries,  and  once  more  I  flung 
myself  along  the  shore,  and  my  black  shadow 
flung  after  me. 

"I'm  coming,  I'm  coming!"  I  cried,  as  though 
in  reply  to  some  one  calling  me.  But  the  tall 
man  was  quietly  seated  behind  me,  embracing 
his  knees,  and  kept  singing  a  loud  secondo  to 
the  bell:  "Boom!  boom!  boom!" 

"Are  you  mad?"  I  shouted  to  him.     But  he 


THE  TOCSIN  191 

only  sang  the  louder  and  the  merrier,  ''Boom  I 
boom!   boom!" 

"Be  quiet!"  I  entreated.  But  he  smiled  and 
sang  on,  wagging  his  head,  and  the  fire  flared 
up  in  his  glassy  eyes.  He  was  more  terrible  than 
the  fire,  this  maniac,  and  I  turned  round  and 
took  to  flight  along  the  shore.  But  I  had  scarcely 
gone  a  few  steps,  when  his  lanky  figure  appeared 
silently  alongside  of  me,  his  shirt  fluttering  in  the 
wind.  He  ran  in  silence,  even  as  I  did,  with 
long  untiring  strides,  and  in  silence  our  black 
shadows  ran  along  the  upturned  field. 

The  bell  was  suffocating  in  its  last  death- 
struggle  and  cried  out  like  a  human  being  who, 
despairing  of  assistance,  has  lost  all  hope.  And 
we  ran  on  in  silence  aimlessly  into  the  dark- 
ness, and  close  to  us  our  black  shadows  leapt 
mockingly. 


BARGAMOT  AND  GARASKA 

It  would  be  unjust  to  say  that  Nature  had 
injured  Ivan  Akindinich  Bargamotov,  who  in  his 
official  capacity  was  called  ''Constable  No.  20," 
and  unofficially  simply  Bargamotov.  The  in- 
habitants of  one  of  the  outskirts  of  the  provincial 
towns  of  Orel,  who  in  their  turn  were  nicknamed 
"gunners,"  from  the  name  of  their  abode  (Gun- 
ner Street)  and,  from  the  moral  side  were  char- 
acterized as  "broken-headed  gunners,"  when  they 
dubbed  Ivan  Akindinovich  "Bargamot,"  were 
without  doubt  not  thinking  of  the  qualities  which 
belong  to  such  a  delicate  and  delicious  fruit  as 
the  bergamot.  By  his  exterior  Bargamot  re- 
minded one  rather  of  the  mastodon,  or  of  any  of 
those  engaging,  but  extinct  creatures,  which  for 
want  of  room  have  long  ago  deserted  a  world  al- 
ready filling  up  with  flaccid  little  humans.  Tall, 
stout,  strong,  loud-voiced  Bargamot  loomed  big 
on  the  police  horizon,  and  certainly  would  long 
ago  have  attained  notable  rank,  if  only  his  soul, 
compressed  within  those  stout  walls,  had  not  been 
sunk  in  an  heroic  sleep. 

Outward  impressions  in  passing  to  Bargamot's 

soul  by  means  of  his  little  fat-encased  eyes,  lost 

all  their  sharpness  and  force,  and  arrived  at  their 

192 


BARGAMOT  AND  GARASKA       193 

destination  only  in  the  form  of  feeble  echoes  and 
reflexions.  A  person  of  sublime  requirements 
would  have  called  him  a  lump  of  flesh;  his  su- 
perior officers  called  him  a  "stock,"  but  a  useful 
one — while  to  the  "gunners,"  the  persons  most 
interested  in  this  question,  he  was  a  staid,  serious 
matter-of-fact  man,  one  worthy  of  every  respect 
and  consideration.  What  Bargamot  knew  he 
knew  well,  were  it  only  a  policeman's  instructions, 
which  he  had  assimilated  some  time  or  other  with 
all  the  energy  of  his  mighty  frame,  and  which 
had  sunk  so  deep  into  his  sluggish  brain,  that  it 
would  have  been  impossible  to  rout  them  out 
again,  even  with  vitriol.  Nevertheless  certain 
truths  occupied  a  permanent  position  in  his  soul, 
truths  acquired  by  way  of  life's  experience,  and 
unconditionally  dominating  the  situation. 

Of  that  which  Bargamot  did  not  know  he  kept 
such  an  imperturbably  stolid  silence,  that  people 
w^ho  did  know  it  became  somehow  or  other  some- 
what ashamed  of  their  knowledge.  But  the  chief 
point  was  this  that  Bargamot  was  enormously 
powerful;  and  might  was  right  in  Gunner  Street, 
a  slum  inhabited  by  shoemakers,  tailors  who 
worked  at  home,  and  the  representatives  of  other 
"liberal"  professions.  Owning  two  public 
houses,  uproarious  on  Sundays  and  Mondays, 
Gunner  Street  devoted  all  its  leisure  hours  to  Ho- 
meric fights,  in  which  the  women,  bare-headed 
and  dishevelled,  took  immediate  part  (as  they 
separated  their  husbands),   and   also  the  little 


194       BARGAMOT  AND  GARASKA 

children,  who  gazed  with  delight  on  the  daring 
of  their  papas. 

All  this  rough  wave  of  drunken  "gunners" 
beat  against  the  immovable  Bargamot  as  against 
a  stone  breakwater,  while  he  would  deliberately 
seize  with  his  mighty  hands  a  pair  of  the  most 
desperate  rowdies  and  personally  conduct  them  to 
the  "lock-up,"  and  the  rowdies  would  obediently 
submit  their  fate  to  the  hands  of  Bargamot,  pro- 
testing merely  for  the  sake  of  appearances. 

Such  w^as  Bargamot  in  the  domain  of  inter- 
national relations.  In  the  sphere  of  home  politics 
he  held  himself  with  no  less  dignity.  The  small 
tumble-down  cottage,  in  which  Bargamot  lived 
with  his  wife  and  two  young  children,  and  which 
with  difficulty  afforded  room  for  his  mighty  body, 
and  trembled  with  craziness  and  wath  fear  for 
its  own  existence  whenever  Bargamot  turned 
round,  might  be  at  ease,  if  not  with  regard  to  its 
own  wooden  structure,  at  all  events  in  respect 
of  the  family  unity. 

Domestic,  careful,  and  fond  of  digging  in  his 
garden  on  free  days,  Bargamot  was  severe.  He 
instructed  his  wife  and  children  through  the 
same  medium  of  physical  influence,  not  conform- 
ing so  much  to  the  actual  requirement  of  science 
as  to  certain  indefinite  prescriptions  on  that  score 
which  existed  in  the  ramifications  of  his  big  head. 
This  did  not  prevent  his  wife  Marya,  who  was 
still  a  young  and  handsome  woman,  on  the  one 
hand  from  respecting  her  husband  as  a  steady, 


BARGAMOT  AND  GARASKA       195 

sober  man,  and  on  the  other,  in  spite  of  all  his 
massiveness,  from  twisting  him  round  her  finger 
with  that  ease  and  force  of  which  only  weak 
women  are  capable. 

At  about  ten  o'clock  on  a  warm  spring  evening 
Bargamot  stood  at  his  usual  post  at  the  corner  of 
Gunner  Street  and  the  3rd  Garden  Street.  He 
was  in  a  bad  humour.  To-morrow  was  Easter 
Day,  and  soon  people  would  be  going  to  church, 
while  he  would  have  to  stand  on  duty  till  3  o'clock 
in  the  morning,  and  would  only  get  home  in  time 
for  the  conclusion  of  the  fast.  Bargamot  did  not 
feel  any  need  of  prayer,  but  the  bright  holiday 
air  which  permeated  the  unusually  peaceful  and 
quiet  street  affected  even  him. 

He  did  not  like  the  spot  on  vv^hich  he  had  stood 
still  every  day  for  a  matter  of  ten  years.  He  felt 
a  desire  to  do  something  of  a  holiday  character 
such  as  others  were  doing.  And  in  view  of  these 
uneasy  feelings  there  arose  within  him  a  certain 
discontent  and  impatience.  Moreover  he  w^as 
hungry.  His  wife  had  given  him  no  dinner  at 
all  that  day,  and  so  he  had  had  to  put  up  with 
a  few  sups  of  kvass  and  bread.  His  great  stom- 
ach was  insistently  demanding  food;  and  how 
long  it  was  still  to  the  conclusion  of  the  fast! 

Ptu! — spat  Bargamot,  as  he  made  a  cigarette 
and  began  reluctantly  to  suck  at  it.  At  home  he 
had  some  good  cigarettes,  presented  to  him  by  a 
local  shop-keeper,  but  he  was  reserving  them  till 
the  conclusion  of  the  fast. 


196       BARGAMOT  AND  GARASKA 

Soon  the  ''gunners"  drew  along  towards  the 
church,  clean  and  respectable  in  jackets  and 
waistcoats  over  red  and  blue  flannel  shirts,  and 
in  long  boots  with  innumerable  creases,  and  high 
pointed  heels.  To-morrow  all  this  splendour 
was  destined  to  disappear  behind  the  counter  of 
the  "pub,"  or  to  be  torn  in  pieces  in  a  friendly 
struggle  for  harmony. 

But  for  to-day  the  "gunners"  were  resplendent. 
Each  one  carefully  carried  a  parcel  of  paschal 
cakes.  None  took  any  notice  of  Bargamot, 
neither  did  he  look  with  especial  love  on  his 
"god-children,"  and  uneasily  prognosticated  how 
many  times  he  would  have  to  make  a  journey  to- 
morrow to  the  police  station. 

In  fact,  he  was  jealous  that  they  were  free  and 
could  go  where  it  was  bright,  noisy  and  cheerful, 
while  he  was  stuck  there  like  a  penitent. 

"Here  I  have  to  stand  because  of  you,  drunk- 
ards," muttered  he,  summing  up  his  thoughts, 
and  spat  once  more — he  felt  a  hollow  in  the  pit 
of  his  stomach. 

The  street  was  becoming  empty.  The  Eucha- 
ristic  bell  had  ceased.  Then  the  joyful  changes 
of  the  treble  peal,  so  cheerful  after  the  melan- 
choly tolling  of  the  Lenten  bells,  spread  over  the 
world  the  joyful  news  of  Christ's  resurrection. 
Bargamot  took  off  his  hat  and  crossed  himself. 
Soon  he  would  be  going  home.  He  became  more 
cheerful  as  he  imagined  to  himself  the  table  laid 
with  a  clean  cloth,  the  paschal  cakes  and  the  eggs. 


BARGAMOT  AND  GARASKA       197 

He  would  without  hurry  give  to  all  the  Easter 
salutation.  They  would  wake  up  Jack  and  bring 
him  in,  and  he  would  at  once  demand  the  col- 
oured egg,  about  which  he  had  held  circumstan- 
tial conversations  the  whole  week  through  with 
his  more  experienced  little  sister.  Oh,  how  he'll 
open  wide  his  mouth  when  his  father  brings  him, 
not  the  bright  dyed  egg,  but  the  real  marble  one, 
w^hich  the  same  obliging  shop-keeper  had  pre- 
sented to  Bargamot! 

"Dear  little  chap!"  said  Bargamot  with  a 
smile,  feeling  a  sort  of  paternal  tenderness  well- 
ing up  from  the  depths  of  his  soul. 

But  Bargamot 's  placidity  was  broken  in  on  in 
the  most  abject  manner.  Round  the  corner  w^ere 
heard  uneven  footsteps  and  low  mutterings. 

"Who  the  devil  is  coming  here?"  thought 
Bargamot,  looking  round  the  corner  and  feeling 
injured  in  his  very  soul. 

"Garaska!  Yes,  drunk  as  usual!  Well, 
that's  a  finisher!" 

It  was  a  mystery  to  Bargamot  how  Garaska 
could  have  managed  to  get  drunk  before  day- 
light, but  of  the  fact  of  his  drunkenness  there 
w^as  no  doubt.  His  behaviour,  mysterious  as  it 
w^ould  have  been  to  an  outsider,  was  perfectly 
clear  to  Bargamot,  who  w^as  well  acquainted  with 
the  "Gunner"  soul  in  general,  and  with  the  low 
nature  of  Garaska  in  particular.  Attracted  by 
an  irresistible  force  from  the  middle  of  the  street, 
in  which  he  had  the  habit  of  walking,  he  was 


198       BARGAMOT  AND  GARASKA 

pressed  close  to  the  hoarding.  Supporting  him- 
self with  both  hands,  and  contemplating  the  wall 
with  a  concentrated  air  of  inquiry,  Garaska  stag- 
gered, while  he  gathered  up  his  strength  for  a 
fresh  struggle  with  any  unexpected  inpediments 
he  might  meet  with. 

After  a  short  but  intense  meditation  he  pushed 
himself  energetically  from  the  wall,  and  stag- 
gered backwards  into  the  middle  of  the  street, 
made  a  deliberate  turn,  and  set  out  with  long 
strides  into  space,  which  turned  out  to  be  not 
quite  so  endless  as  it  has  been  said  to  be,  but 
was  in  fact  bounded  by  a  mass  of  lamps. 

With  the  first  of  these,  Garaska  came  into  the 
closest  relations,  and  clasped  it  in  the  firm  em- 
brace of  friendship. 

''A  lamp!  Stop!"  said  he  curtly,  as  he  estab- 
lished the  accomplished  fact.  Quite  unusually, 
of  course,  Garaska  was  in  an  excessively  good 
humour.  Instead  of  heaping  well-deserved  ob- 
jurgations upon  the  lamp-post  he  turned  to  it 
with  mild  reproaches,  which  contained  some 
touches  of  familiarity. 

"Stand  still,  you  silly  ass,  where  are  you  go- 
ing to?"  he  muttered  as  he  staggered  away  from 
the  lamp-post,  and  again  fell  with  his  whole 
chest  upon  it,  almost  flattening  his  nose  against 
its  cold  damp  surface. 

''That's  right!  eh?"  and  by  clinging  with  half 
his  length  along  the  post  he  managed  to  hold  on, 
and  sank  into  a  reverie. 


BARGAMOT  AND  GARASKA       199 

Bargamot  contemptuously  compressed  his  lips, 
as  he  looked  down  on  Garaska  from  his  superior 
height.  Nobody  annoyed  him  so  much  in  the 
whole  of  Gunner  Street  as  this  wretched  toper. 
To  look  at  him — one  would  not  have  thought  there 
was  any  strength  in  him,  and  yet  he  was  the 
greatest  scandal  in  the  w^hole  neighbourhood. 

He's  not  a  man,  but  an  ulcer!  A  "gunner" 
gets  drunk,  makes  a  disturbance,  spends  the  night 
in  the  lock-up,  and  he  gets  over  all  this  like  a 
gentlem.an — but  Garaska  always  does  it  stealth- 
ily, and  of  malice  prepense.  He  may  be  beaten 
half  to  death  or  nearly  starved  at  the  police  sta- 
tion, still  they  can  never  break  him  of  bad  lan- 
guage, of  his  most  offensively  foul  tongue. 

He  w411  stand  under  the  windows  of  any  of 
the  most  respectable  people  in  Gunner  Street, 
and  begin  to  swear  without  rhyme  or  reason. 
The  shopmen  seize  Garaska  and  beat  him — the 
crowd  laughs  and  advises  them  to  give  it  him 
hot.  Garaska  would  revile  even  Bargamot  him- 
self in  such  fantastically  realistic  language,  that 
without  understanding  all  the  subtleties  of  his 
wit,  he  felt  himself  more  insulted,  than  if  he  had 
been  whipped. 

How  Garaska  got  his  living,  remained  to  the 
"gunners"  one  of  those  mysteries  which  envel- 
oped his  whole  existence.  Certainly  no  one  had 
ever  seen  him  sober.  He  lived,  or  rather  camped 
about  in  the  orchards,  or  the  river-bank,  or  under 
shrubs.     In  winter  he  disappeared  to  somewhere 


200       BARGAMOT  AND  GARASKA 

or  other,  and  with  the  first  breath  of  spring  he 
reappeared.  What  attracted  him  to  Gunner 
Street,  where  it  was  every  one's  business  to  beat 
him,  was  again  a  profound  mystery  of  Garaska's 
soul,  but  get  rid  of  him  they  could  not.  They 
strongly  suspected,  and  that  not  without  reason, 
that  he  was  a  thief,  but  they  could  not  take  him 
in  the  act,  so  he  was  beaten  on  merely  circum- 
stantial evidence. 

On  this  occasion  Garaska  had  evidently  a  dif- 
ficult path  to  negotiate.  The  rags,  which  made 
a  pretence  of  seriously  covering  his  emaciated 
body,  were  all  over  still  undried  mud. 

His  face,  with  its  big,  bulbous  red  nose,  which 
was  incontestably  one  of  the  causes  of  his  un- 
stable equilibrium,  was  covered  with  an  irregu- 
larly distributed  w^atery  growth,  and  gave  sub- 
stantial evidence  of  its  close  relations  with  alcohol 
and  a  neighbour's  fist.  On  his  cheek  near  the 
eye  was  a  scratch  of  evidently  recent  origin. 

He  succeeded  at  last  in  parting  company  with 
the  lamp-post,  and  when  he  observed  the  dig- 
nified silent  figure  of  Bargamot  he  was  over- 
joyed. 

^'Our  best  respects  to  you,  Bargamot  Bargamo- 
tich — we  hope  we  see  you  well!"  said  he  with  a 
polite  wave  of  his  hand,  but  he  staggered,  and 
was  fain  to  prop  himself  up  with  his  back  against 
the  lamp-post. 

^ 'Where  are  you  going  to?"  growled  Bargamot 
saturninely. 


BARGAMOT  AND  GARASKA       201 

"We're  orl  righ'!" 

"On  the  old  lay,  eh?  Or  do  you  want  a  doss 
in  the  cells.  You  wretch,  I'll  run  you  in  at 
once." 

"No,  you  don't!" 

Garaska  was  just  going  to  make  a  gesture  of 
defiance,  when  he  wisely  restrained  himself,  spat 
and  rubbed  his  foot  about  on  the  ground,  as 
though  to  rub  out  the  spittle. 

"You  can  talk  when  you  get  to  the  police  sta- 
tion!    March!" 

Bargamot's  mighty  hand  stretched  out  to  Gar- 
aska's  collar,  so  greasy  in  fact  that  it  was  evi- 
dent that  Bargamot  was  not  his  first  guide  on 
the  thorny  path  of  well-doing.  Giving  the 
drunken  man  a  slight  shake,  and  propelling  his 
body  in  the  required  direction,  and  at  the  same 
time  giving  it  a  certain  stability,  Bargamot 
dragged  him  towards  the  above-mentioned  gaol, 
just  as  a  strong  hawser  might  tow  after  it  a  very 
light  schooner,  which  had  met  with  an  accident 
outside  the  harbour.  He  considered  himself 
deeply  injured,  instead  of  enjoying  his  well-earned 
rest,  to  have  to  drag  himself  with  this  drunkard 
to  the  station. 

Ugh!  Bargamot's  hands  itched — but  the  con- 
sciousness that  on  such  a  high  festival  it  would 
be  unseemly  to  let  them  have  their  way,  re- 
strained him.  Garaska  strode  on  bravely,  ming- 
ling in  a  remarkable  manner  self-confidence,  and 
even   insolence,    with    meekness.     He    evidently 


202       BARGAMOT  AND  GARASKA 

harboured  some  thought  of  his  own,  which  he 
began  to  approach  by  the  Socratic  method. 

"Tell  me,  Mr.  Policeman,  what  is  to-day?" 

"Won't  you  shut  up!"  Bargamot  replied  in 
contempt.     "Drunk  before  daylight!" 

"Has  the  bell  at  Michael  the  Archangel's  rung 
yet?" 

"Yes,  what's  that  to  you?" 

"Then  Christ  is  risen!" 

"Well,  He  is  risen." 

"Then  allow  me "     Garaska  was  carrying 

on  this  conversation  half  twisted  towards  Barga- 
mot, and  with  his  face  resolutely  turned  to  him. 
Bargamot,  interested  by  the  strange  questions, 
mechanically  let  go  the  greasy  collar.  Garaska, 
losing  his  support,  staggered  and  fell  before  he 
could  show  to  Bargamot  an  object  which  he  had 
just  taken  out  of  his  pocket.  Raising  his  great 
shoulders,  as  he  supported  himself  on  his  hands, 
Garaska  looked  on  the  ground,  then  fell  face 
downwards,  and  began  to  wail,  as  a  peasant 
woman  wails  for  the  dead. 

Garaska  howling!  Bargamot  w^as  surprised, 
but  deciding  that  it  must  be  some  new  joke  of  his, 
he  still  felt  interested  as  to  developments.  The 
development  was  that  Garaska  continued  howling 
without  words,  just  like  a  dog. 

"What's  up  now?  Off  your  nut,  eh?"  said 
Bargamot  as  he  gave  him  a  shove  with  his  foot. 
He  went  on  howling.  Bargamot  w^as  in  a  di- 
lemma. 


BARGAMOT  AND  GARASKA       203 

''What's  got  yer,  eh?'^ 

'The  eg-g." 

"Well?" 

Garaska  went  on  howling,  but  less  noisily,  he 
sat  down  and  lifted  up  his  hand.  The  hand  was 
covered  with  something  sticky,  to  which  adhered 
pieces  of  coloured  egg-shell.  Bargamot,  still  in 
doubt,  began  to  have  an  inkling  that  something 
untoward  had  taken  place. 

"I like    a    gentleman —to    present 

Easter  egg but  you "  blubbered  Garaska 

disconnectedly;    but   Bargamot  understood. 

It  was  evident  what  had  been  Garaska 's  inten- 
tion. He  wished  to  present  him  with  an  Easter 
egg  according  to  Christian  usage,  and  Bargamot 
was  for  taking  him  to  gaol.  Perhaps  he  had 
brought  the  egg  a  long  way,  and  now  it  was  broken 
— and  he  was  crying.  Bargamot  imagined  to 
himself  that  the  marble  egg  he  was  keeping  for 
Jack  was  broken,  and  how  sorry  it  made  him. 

" 'Ere's  a  go!"  said  Bargamot  shaking  his 
head,  as  he  looked  at  the  wallowing  drunkard, 
and  pitied  him  as  intensely  as  he  would  have 
pitied  a  man  cruelly  wronged  by  his  own  brother. 

"He  was  going  to  present "     "He  is  also 

a  living  soul,"  muttered  the  policeman,  striving 
albeit  clumsily  to  render  the  state  of  affairs  clear 
to  himself,  and  feeling  a  mixture  of  shame  and 
pity,  which  became  more  and  more  oppressive. 

"And  vou  would  have  run  him  in!  Shame  on 
you!" 


204       BARGAMOT  AND  GARASKA 

Sighing  heavily  as  he  bent  down  he  knocked 
his  short  sword  against  a  stone,  and  sat  down 
on  his  heels  near  to  Garaska. 

''Well,"  he  muttered  in  confusion,  "perhaps  it 
is  not  broken." 

"Not  broken!  Why  yer  was  ready  to  break 
my  snout  for  me.     Brute!" 

"But  what  did  you  shove  for!" 

"What  for "  mimicked  Garaska.     "I  was 

going like  a  gentleman  to and  him  to 

the  lock  up.  Think  that's  my  last  egg?  Yer 
lump!" 

Bargamot  sniffed.  He  did  not  feel  in  the  least 
hurt  by  Garaska's  abuse;  through  his  whole  ill- 
organized  interior  he  felt  a  sort  of  half  pity,  half 
shame,  while  in  the  remotest  depths  of  his  stout 
body  something  kept  tiresomely  wimbling  and 
torturing. 

"Can  one  help  giving  you  a  thrashing?"  said 
Bargamot,  more  to  himself  than  to  Garaska. 

"Not  you,  you  garden  scarecrow!  Now  look 
'ere." 

Garaska  was  evidently  falling  into  his  usual 
groove.  In  his  somewhat  clearing  brain  he  was 
picturing  to  himself  a  whole  perspective  of  the 
most  compromising  terms  of  abuse,  and  most  in- 
sulting epithets,  when  Bargamot  cleared  his 
throat  with  a  sound  which  left  not  the  slightest 
doubt  as  to  the  firmness  of  his  determination  and 
declared : 

"We'll  go  to  my  house,  and  break  the  fast." 


BARGAMOT  AND  GARASKA       205 

^'Whatl   go  to  your  house,  you  tubby  devil  1" 

''Let's  go,  I  say." 

Garaska's  surprise  was  boundless.  Quite  pas- 
sively he  allowed  himself  to  be  lifted  up  and  led 
by  the  hand,  and  he  went — but  whither?  Not  to 
the  lock-up,  but  to  the  house  of  Bargamot  himself 
— actually  to  eat  his  Easter  breakfast  there!  A 
seductive  thought  came  into  his  head — to  give 
Bargamot  the  slip,  but  though  his  head  had  be- 
come cleared  by  the  very  unusualness  of  the  situ- 
ation his  feet  still  remained  in  such  evil  case, 
that  they  seemed  sworn  to  perpetually  cling  to 
one  another,  and  to  prevent  each  other  from 
walking. 

Then,  too,  Bargamot  was  such  a  wonder  that 
Garaska,  truth  to  tell,  did  not  want  to  get  away. 

Bargamot,  tw^isting  his  tongue,  and  searching 
for  words  and  stuttering,  now  propounded  to  him 
the  instructions  for  a  policeman,  and  now  revert- 
ing to  the  special  question  of  thrashing,  and  the 
lock-up,  deciding  in  his  own  mind  in  the  positive, 
and  at  the  same  time  in  the  negative. 

"You  say  truly,  Ivan  Akindinich,  we  must  be 
beaten,"  acknowledged  Garaska,  feeling  even  a 
sort  of  awkwardness.  Bargamot  was  a  sore 
wonder ! 

''No,  I  don't  mean  to  do  that,"  mumbled  Bar- 
gamot, evidently  understanding,  even  less  than 
Garaska,  what  his  woolly  tongue  was  babbling. 

They  arrived  at  last  at  Bargamot's  house — 
and    Garaska    had    already   ceased   to   wonder. 


2o6       BARGAMOT  AND  GARASKA 

Marya  at  first  opened  her  eyes  wide  at  the  sight 
of  the  unwonted  couple,  but  she  guessed  from 
her  husband's  perturbed  look,  that  there  was  no 
room  for  objections,  and  in  her  womanly  kind- 
heartedness  quickly  understood  what  she  was  ex- 
pected to  do. 

Quieted  and  confused,  Garaska  sat  down  at  the 
decorated  table.  He  felt  ashamed  enough  to  sink 
into  the  ground.  Ashamed  of  his  rags,  of  his 
dirty  hands,  ashamed  of  his  whole  self,  torn, 
drunken,  disgusting  as  he  was.  Scalding  him- 
self with  the  deuced  hot  soup,  swimming  with  fat, 
he  spilt  it  on  the  table-cloth,  and  although  the 
hostess  with  delicacy  pretended  not  to  have  no- 
ticed it,  he  grew  confused  and  spilt  still  more; 
so  unbearably  did  those  shrivelled  fingers  trem- 
ble with  those  great  dirty  nails,  which  Garaska 
now  noticed  for  the  first  time. 

"Ivan  Akindinich,  what  surprise  have  you  for 
Jacky?"  asked  Marya. 

''Never  mind later  on,"  hurriedly  replied 

Bargamot.  He  was  scalding  himself  with  the 
soup,  blew  on  his  spoon,  and  stolidly  wiped  his 
moustache — but  through  all  this  solidity  the  same 
amazement  was  apparent,  as  in  the  case  of 
Garaska. 

Marya  hospitably  pressed  her  guest  to  eat. 

''Garasim,"  she  said,  ''how  are  you  called  after 
your  father's  name?" 

"Andreich." 

"Welcome,  Garasim  Andreich." 


BARGAMOT  AND  GARASKA       207 

Garaska,  in  endeavouring  to  swallow,  choked, 
and  throwing  down  his  spoon,  dropped  his  head 
on  the  table,  right  on  the  greasy  spot  which  he 
had  just  made.  From  his  breast  there  escaped 
again  that  rough,  piteous  howl,  which  had  before 
so  disturbed  Bargamot. 

The  children,  who  had  almost  left  off  taking 
any  notice  of  the  guest,  dropped  their  spoons  and 
joined  their  treble  to  his  tenor.  Bargamot  looked 
at  his  wdfe  with  a  troubled  and  woeful  expression. 

^'Now,  what's  the  matter  with  you,  Garasim 
Andreich.  Leave  off,"  said  she,  trying  to  quiet 
the  perturbed  guest. 

^'By  my  father's  name!  Since  I  was  born  no 
one  ever  called  me  so!" 


''MEN  MAY  RISE  ON  STEPPING-STONES 

OF  THEIR  DEAD  SELVES  TO 

HIGHER  THINGS" 

Have  you  ever  happened  to  walk  in  a  burial- 
ground  ? 

Those  little  walled-in,  quiet  corners,  overgrown 
with  luscious  grass,  so  small,  and  yet  so  raven- 
ous, possess  a  peculiar  dolorous  poetry  all  their 
own. 

Day  after  day  thither  are  borne  new  corpses, 
a  whole,  immense,  living,  noisy  city  has  been 
already  borne  thither  one  by  one,  and  lo !  the  new 
city  which  has  grown  in  its  place  is  awaiting  its 
turn — and  the  little  corners  remain  ever  the  same, 
small,  still,  ravenous. 

The  peculiar  air  in  them,  the  peculiar  silence, 
and  the  lisping  of  the  trees  different  there  to  any- 
w^here  else,  are  all  mournful,  pensive,  tender.  It 
is  as  though  those  white  birches  could  not  forget 
all  those  weeping  eyes,  which  have  sought  the  sky 
betwixt  their  green  branches,  and  as  though  it 
were  no  wind,  but  deep  sighs  which  keep  swaying 
the  air  and  the  fresh  leaves. 

You,  too,  wander  about  the  graveyard  silent 

and  pensive.     Your  ear  is  conscious  of  the  gentle 

echoes  of  deep  groans  and  tears,  while  your  eyes 

208 


STEPPING  STONES  209 

rest  on  rich  monuments,  and  modest  wooden 
crosses;  and  the  unmarked  tombs  of  strangers, 
covering  their  dead,  who  were  strangers  when  liv- 
ing, unmarked,  unobserved.  And  you  read  the 
inscriptions  on  the  monuments,  and  all  these  peo- 
ple who  have  disappeared  from  the  world  rise  up 
in  your  imagination.  You  see  them  young, 
laughing,  loving;  you  see  them  hale,  loquacious, 
insolently  confident  in  the  endlessness  of  life. 
And  they  are  dead. 

But  is  it  necessary  to  go  out  of  one's  house 
to  visit  a  burial  ground?  Is  it  not  sufficient  for 
this  purpose,  that  the  darkness  of  night  should 
envelop  you,  and  have  swallowed  up  all  the 
sounds  of  day? 

How  many  rich  and  sumptuous  monuments! 
How  many  unmarked  graves  of  strangers ! 

But  is  night  needful  in  order  to  visit  a  grave- 
yard? Is  not  daytime  enough — restless,  noisy 
day,  sufficient  unto  which  is  the  evil  thereof? 

Look  into  your  own  soul,  and  then,  be  it  day 
or  night,  you  will  find  there  a  burial  ground. 
Small  greedy,  having  devoured  so  much!  And 
a  gentle,  sorrowful,  whisper  will  ye  hear,  an  echo 
of  bygone  heavy  groans  when  the  dead  was  dear, 
whom  ye  left  in  the  tomb,  and  could  not  forget 
nor  cease  to  love.  And  monuments  ye  will  see, 
and  inscriptions  half  blotted  out  with  tears;  and 
still,  obscure,  little  tombs;  small  and  ominous 
mounds,  under  which  is  hidden  something  which 


210  STEPPING  STONES 

once  was  living,  although  ye  knew  not  its  life, 
nor  remarked  its  death.  But,  maybe,  it  was 
the  very  best  in  your  soul . 

But  why  talk  about  it?  Look  for  yourselves. 
And  have  you  not  indeed  thus  looked  into  your 
burial-ground  every  day,  every  single  day  of  the 
long,  weary  year?  Maybe  as  late  as  yesterday 
you  recalled  the  dear  departed,  and  wept  over 
them.  Maybe  only  yesterday  you  buried  some 
one  who  had  long  been  seriously  ill,  and  had  been 
forgotten  even  in  life. 

Lo!  under  the  heavy  marble  surrounded  by 
iron  rails  rests  Love  of  mankind,  and  her  sister 
Faith  in  them.  How  beautiful  were  they,  and 
wondrous  kind — these  sisters.  What  bright  light 
burned  in  their  eyes,  what  strange  power  was 
wielded  by  their  tender,  white  hands! 

With  what  a  caress  did  those  white  hands  bring 
the  cold  drink  to  lips  burning  with  thirst,  and 
did  feed  the  hungry.  With  what  gentle  care  did 
they  touch  the  sores  of  the  sick,  and  healed  them ! 

And  they  are  dead,  these  sisters.  They  died 
of  cold,  as  is  said  on  the  monument.  They  could 
not  bear  the  icy  wind  in  which  life  enveloped 
them. 

And  there,  further  on,  a  slanting  cross  marks 
the  place  where  a  Talent  is  buried  in  the  earth. 
How  bold  it  was,  how  noisy,  how  happy!  It 
undertook  anything,  wished  to  do  everything,  and 
was  confident  that  it  could  conquer  the  world. 

And  it  is  dead — died  but  lately,  quietly,  and 


STEPPING  STONES  211 

unnoticed.  One  day  it  went  among  men,  for 
long  it  was  lost  there,  and  it  came  back  defeated, 
sad.  Long  it  wept,  long  it  strove  to  say  some- 
thing, and  then  without  having  said  it — died. 

And  here  is  a  long  row  of  little  sunken  mounds. 
Who  lies  here? 

Ah!  yes.  These  are  children.  Little,  keen, 
sportive  Hopes.  There  were  so  many  of  them, 
they  were  so  merry,  and  the  soul  was  peopled  with 
them.  But  one  by  one  they  died.  They  were 
so  many,  and  they  made  such  merriment  in  the 
soul. 

It  is  quiet  in  the  resting-place,  and  the  leaves 
of  the  white  birches  rustle  sadly. 

But  let  the  dead  arise!  Ye  grim  tombs  ope 
wide,  crumble  to  dust  ye  heavy  monuments,  ye 
iron  bars  give  place! 

Be  it  but  for  one  day,  for  one  moment,  give 
freedom  to  those  whom  ye  are  smothering  with 
your  weight,  and  darkness! 

Ye  think  they  are  dead!  Oh,  no!  they  live! 
They  are  silent,  but  they  live. 

They  live! 

Let  them  see  the  shining  of  the  blue,  cloud- 
less sky,  let  them  breathe  the  pure  air  of  spring, 
let  them  be  intoxicated  with  warmth  and  love. 

Come  to  me  my  Talent  that  fell  asleep.  Why 
dost  so  drolly  rub  thine  eyes.  Does  the  sun  blind 
thee?  Does  it  not  shine  bright  indeed?  Thou 
laughest?     Oh  laugh,  laugh  on — there  is  so  little 


212  STEPPING  STONES 

of  laughter  among  mankind.  I  too  will  laugh 
with  thee.  Look!  there  flies  a  swallow — ^let  us 
fly  after  it !  Has  the  tomb  made  thee  too  heavy  ? 
And  what  is  that  strange  horror  I  see  in  thine 
eyes — like  a  reflection  of  the  darkness  of  the 
tomb?  No,  no,  don't!  Don't  cry.  Don't  cry, 
I  say! 

So  glorious,  indeed,  is  life  for  the  risen! 

And  ye  my  dear  little  Hopes!  What  charm- 
ing laughing  faces  are  yours!  Who  art  thou, 
stout,  funny  little  cherub?  I  know  thee  not. 
And  wherefore  laughest  thou?  Has  the  tomb 
itself  been  unable  to  affright  thee?  Gently,  my 
children,  gently!  Why  dost  insult  it — see'st  not 
how  little,  pale  and  weak  it  is  become?  Live  ye 
in  the  world — and  do  not  worry  me.  Do  ye  not 
see  that  I,  too,  have  been  in  the  tomb,  and  now 
my  head  is  giddy  with  the  sun,  and  the  air,  and 
gladness. 

Ah !  how  glorious  is  life  for  the  risen ! 

Come  to  me,  ye  lovely,  majestic  Sisters.  Let 
me  kiss  your  gentle  white  hands.  What  do  I 
see?  Is  it  bread  ye  are  carrying?  Did  not  the 
darkness  of  the  tomb  terrify  you — so  tender,  wo- 
manly and  weak;  under  the  whelming  mass  did 
ye  still  think  of  bread  for  the  hungry?  Let  me 
kiss  your  feet.  I  know  where  they  will  soon  be 
going,  your  light,  swift  little  feet.  And  I  know 
that  wherever  they  pass  by  flowers  will  spring  up 
— wondrous,  sweet-smelling  flowers.  Ye  call. 
We  will  come,  then. 


STEPPING  STONES  213 

Hither!  my  risen  Talent — why  stand  gazing 
at  the  fleeting  clouds.  Hither !  my  little  sportive 
Hopes. 

Stop! 

I  hear  music.  Don't  shout  so,  cherub. 
Whence  these  wondrous  sounds?  Gentle,  melo- 
dious, madly  joyful,  and  sad,  they  speak  of  life 
eternal 

Nay,  be  ye  not  afraid.  This  will  soon  pass 
away.     I  weep,  indeed,  for  joy! 

Ah!  how  glorious  is  life  for  the  risen! 


THE  SPY 

A  YOUNG  little  student  girl — almost  a  child. 
Her  nose  was  thin,  beautiful,  with  a  slight  up- 
ward tilt;  and  from  her  full  lips  there  seemed  to 
come  the  scent  of  chocolates  and  red  caramels. 
And  her  fine  hair,  which  covered  her  head  like  a 
heavy  and  caressing  wave,  was  so  generously  rich 
that  a  glance  at  it  gave  rise  to  thoughts  of  all  that 
is  best  and  brightest  on  earth :  of  a  golden  morn- 
ing upon  a  blue  sea,  of  Autumn  larks,  of  lilies  of 
the  valley  and  of  fragrant  and  full-grown  lilacs 
— a  cloudless  sky  and  lilacs,  large,  endless  lilac 
bushes,  and  larks  soaring  over  them. 

And  her  eyes  were  young,  bright,  naively  in- 
different. But  when  you  looked  closely  at  her 
you  could  see  upon  her  face  the  fine  shades  of 
fatigue,  of  lack  of  food,  of  sleepless  nights  spent 
in  conversation  in  smoke-filled  little  rooms,  by 
the  exhausting  lamp-light.  Perhaps  there  had 
also  been  tears  upon  those  eyes — big,  not  childish, 
venomous  tears;  all  her  bearing  was  full  of  re- 
strained alarm;  her  face  was  cheerful,  her  lips 
smiled  slightly,  and  her  foot,  in  a  little,  mud-be- 
spattered rubber  shoe,  stamped  on  the  floor  im- 
patiently, as  though  to  hurry  the  slow  car  and  to 
drive  it  ahead  faster,  faster. 

All  this  was  noticed  by  the  observing  Mitrofan 
214 


THE  SPY  215 

Krilov  while  the  car  slowly  passed  a  small  station. 
He  stood  on  the  platform,  opposite  the  girl,  and 
to  while  his  time  away  he  scrutinized  her,  some- 
what fastidiously  and  inimically,  as  a  very  sim- 
ple and  familiar  algebraic  formula  written  in 
chalk  upon  the  blackboard,  which  stared  at  him 
persistently.  At  first  he  felt  cheerful,  like  every- 
one else  who  looked  at  the  girl,  but  this  feeling 
did  not  last  long — there  were  causes  which  killed 
all  cheerfulness  in  him. 

"She  must  have  come  recently  from  some  pro- 
vincial town,"  he  remarked  to  himself  sternly. 
"And  why  the  deuce  do  they  come  here?  I  w^ould 
gladly  have  run  away  from  here  to  the  most  de- 
serted spot,  to  the  end  of  the  world.  I  suppose 
she  is  occupied  with  all  sorts  of  serious  discus- 
sions and  convictions,  and,  of  course,  cannot  sew 
a  ribbon  around  her  skirt.  She  doesn't  bother 
with  such  things.  What  hurts  me  most  is  that 
such  a  good  looking  girl  should  be  like  that." 

The  girl  noticed  his  cross  look  and  became  con- 
fused, more  confused  than  is  usual  under  such 
circumstances;  the  smile  vanished  from  her  eyes, 
an  expression  of  childish  fear  and  perplexity  ap- 
peared on  her  face,  and  her  left  hand  quickly 
moved  up  to  her  chest  and  stopped  there,  clutch- 
ing something. 

"See!"  Mitrofan  wondered,  looking  aside,  and 
his  face  assumed  an  apathetic  expression.  "She 
was  frightened  by  my  blue  eyeglasses.  She 
thinks  that  I  am  a  detective ;  she  is  carrying  some 


2i6  THE  SPY 

papers  under  her  waist.  There  was  a  time  when 
they  used  to  carry  love  letters  on  their  breasts — 
now  they  carry  bulletins.  And  what  an  absurd 
name — bulletins . ' ' 

He  cast  another  furtive  glance  at  her  in  order 
to  verify  his  expression,  then  he  turned  aside. 
The  student  girl  gazed  at  him  continuously,  as 
though  bewitched,  and  she  pressed  her  hand  firmly 
against  her  left  side.     Krilov  grew  angry. 

"What  a  fool!  Since  I  wear  blue  eyeglasses 
I  must  be,  according  to  her  ideas,  a  spy.  But 
she  does  not  understand  that  a  man's  eyes  may 
be  sore  from  hard  work.  How  naive  she  is. 
Just  think  of  it!  And  these  people  undertake 
to  do  work  to  save  the  fatherland.  What  she 
needs  is  a  milk  bottle  and  not  a  fatherland.  No, 
we  are  not  ripe  yet.  Lasalle,  for  instance — his 
was  a  great  mind!  But  here  every  beetle  is  try- 
ing to  do  things !  She  can't  solve  a  simple  math- 
ematical problem,  and  yet  she  is  bothering  about 
finance,  politics,  documents.  You  deserve  to  be 
scared  properly — then  you  will  know  what  you 
are  about!" 

Mitrofan  Krilov  drew  his  head  into  his  shoul- 
ders with  a  sharp  gesture,  his  face  assumed  a 
cunning  and  mean  expression  which,  in  his  opin- 
ion, was  peculiar  to  real  spies,  and  he  cast  a  sin- 
ister look  at  the  girl  which  almost  turned  his  eyes 
out.  And  he  was  satisfied  with  his  work:  the 
girl  shuddered  and  quivered  with  fear,  and  her 
eyes  began  to  wander  alarmedly. 


THE  SPY  217 

"There  is  no  escape!"  Mitrofan  Krilov  inter- 
preted her  restlessness.  "You  may  jump,  you 
may  jump,  my  dove,  and  I'll  make  it  still 
stronger." 

And  growing  ever  more  and  more  inspired,  for- 
getting his  hunger,  and  the  nasty  weather,  elated 
with  his  creative  power,  he  began  to  simulate  a 
spy  as  cleverly  as  if  he  were  a  real  actor  or  as 
if  he  actually  served  in  the  secret  police  depart- 
ment. His  body  wriggled  in  fine  serpentine 
twists  and  turns,  his  eyes  beamed  with  treachery, 
and  his  right  hand,  lowered  in  his  pocket,  clutched 
the  torn  car  ticket  energetically,  as  if  it  were  not 
a  piece  of  paper,  but  a  revolver  loaded  with  six 
bullets,  or  a  spy's  notebook.  And  now  he  at- 
tracted the  attention  of  other  people  as  well  as 
that  of  the  girl.  A  stout,  red-haired  merchant, 
who  occupied  one-third  of  the  platform,  suddenly 
contracted  his  body  imperceptibly,  as  though  he 
had  grown  thin  at  once,  and  turned  aside.  A 
tall  fellow,  with  a  cape  over  his  top  coat,  blinked 
his  rabbit-like  eyes  as  he  stared  at  Krilov,  and 
suddenly,  pushing  the  girl  aside,  jumped  off  the 
car  and  disappeared  among  the  carriages. 

"Excellent!"  Mitrofan  Krilov  praised  himself, 
overjoyed  with  the  hidden  and  spiteful  delight 
of  a  choleric  man.  In  renouncing  his  individu- 
ality, in  the  fact  that  he  pretended  he  was  such 
an  odious  creature  as  a  spy,  and  that  people 
feared  and  despised  him — in  all  this  there  was 
something  keen,  something  pleasantly  alarming. 


2i8  THE  SPY 

something  intensely  interesting.  In  the  grey 
shroud  of  everyday  life  some  dark,  dreadful  vistas 
opened,  full  of  noiselessly  moving  shadows. 

"Indeed,  the  occupation  of  a  spy  must  be  very 
interesting.  A  spy  risks  a  great  deal,  and  how 
he  risks!  One  spy  was  even  killed!  He  was 
slaughtered  like  a  hog!" 

For  a  moment  he  was  frightened,  and  wanted 
to  cease  being  a  spy,  but  the  teacher's  skin  into 
which  he  was  to  return  was  so  meagre,  dull,  and 
repulsive  that  he  inwardly  renounced  it,  and  his 
face  assumed  as  forbidding  an  expression  as  it 
could.  The  student  girl  no  longer  looked  at  him, 
but  her  whole  youthful  figure,  the  tip  of  her  pink 
ear  which  peeped  from  under  her  heavy  hair,  her 
body  bent  slightly  forward,  and  her  chest  work- 
ing slowly  and  deeply,  betrayed  her  terrible  agita- 
tion and  her  one  thought  of  escape.  She  must 
have  been  dreaming  of  wings,  of  wings.  Twice 
she  made  an  irresolute  step,  and  slightly  turned 
her  head  toward  Mitrofan,  but  her  flushed  cheek 
felt  his  penetrating  gaze,  and  she  became  as  pet- 
rified. Her  hand  remained  on  the  platform  rail, 
and  her  black  glove,  torn  at  the  middle  finger, 
quivered  slightly.  She  felt  ashamed  that  every- 
body saw  her  torn  glove  and  the  protruding  fin- 
ger, her  tiny,  orphan-like,  and  timid  finger — and 
yet  she  was  powerless  to  take  off  her  hand. 

"Ah ! "  thought  Mitrofan  Krilov.  "There  you 
are !  There  is  no  escape  for  you.  That's  a  good 
lesson  for  you ;  you'll  know  how  to  do  such  things. 


THE  SPY  219 

At  first  you  acted  as  though  you  were  going  to 
a  ball;  that  wouldn't  do,  you  mustn't  think  of 
pleasures  only.     Now  jump  a  bit,  jump  a  bit!" 

He  pictured  to  himself  the  life  of  the  girl  he 
pursued,  and  it  appeared  to  him  to  be  just  as 
interesting,  just  as  full  and  as  varied  as  the  life 
of  a  spy.  There  was  also  something  in  it  that 
the  life  of  a  spy  lacked — a  certain  offended  pride, 
a  certain  harmony  of  strife,  mystery,  quick  terror, 
and  quick,  courageous  joy.  People  were  pursu- 
ing her. 

Mitrofan  Krilov  looked  askance,  with  aversion, 
at  his  outworn  coat,  rubbed  out  at  the  sleeves; 
he  recalled  the  button  below,  which  was  torn  out 
together  with  a  piece  of  cloth,  pictured  to  himself 
his  own  yellow,  sour  face,  which  he  hid ;  his  blue 
spectacles;  and  with  venomous  joy  he  discovered 
that  he  really  resembled  a  spy.  Particularly  that 
button.  Spies  have  nobody  that  would  sew  on 
their  buttons  for  them. 

Now  he  looked  at  everything  with  the  same 
eyes  that  the  girl  did,  and  all  was  new  to  him. 
He  had  never  before  in  all  his  life  given  any 
thought  as  to  what  evening  and  night  meant — 
mysterious,  voiceless  night,  which  brings  forth 
darkness,  which  hides  people.  Now  he  saw  its 
silent  advent,  wondered  at  the  lanterns  that  were 
lit,  saw  something  in  the  struggle  between  light 
and  darkness,  and  was  amazed  at  the  calm  of  the 
crowd  walking  on  the  sidewalks.  Was  it  pos- 
sible that  they  did  not  see  the  light?     The  girl 


220  THE  SPY 

looked  greedily  at  the  passing  black  spaces  of 
the  still  dark  side  streets  and  he  looked  at  them 
with  the  same  eyes  as  she  did,  and  the  corridors, 
luring  into  the  darkness,  were  eloquent.  She 
looked  mournfully  at  the  dull  houses  which  were 
fenced  off  from  the  streets  by  rocks,  and  at  the 
shelterless  people — and  these  massive,  angry  fort- 
resses seemed  new  to  her. 

Availing  herself  of  the  teacher's  distractedness, 
the  student  girl  lifted  her  hand  in  the  torn  glove 
from  the  platform  rail — this  made  her  braver — 
and  she  jumped  off  at  the  corner  of  a  large  street. 
At  this  point  people  got  off  and  many  others 
boarded  the  car,  and  a  thin  woman  with  a  huge 
bundle  obstructed  the  way,  so  that  Mitrofan 
Krilov  could  not  leave  the  car.  He  said 
"Please,"  and  tried  to  force  himself  out,  but  he 
got  stuck  in  the  doorway  and  ran  to  the  other 
side  of  the  car.  But  there  the  way  was  obstructed 
by  the  conductor  and  the  red  merchant. 

'Tet  me  pass,"  Mitrofan  Krilov  shouted. 
"Conductor,  what  disgraceful  business  is  this? 
I'll  make  a  complaint  against  you!" 

"They  didn't  hear  you,"  the  conductor  de- 
fended himself  timidly.     "Please,  let  him  pass." 

Out  of  breath,  he  finally  freed  himself,  jumped 
off  so  awkwardly  that  he  almost  fell  down  and 
he  threatened  the  departing  red  light  of  the  car 
with  his  fist. 

Mitrofan  overtook  the  girl  in  a  small  deserted 
street,  into  which  he  turned  by  intuition.     She 


THE  SPY  221 

walked  briskly  and  kept  looking  around,  and 
when  she  noticed  her  pursuer  she  started  to  run, 
thus  naively  betraying  her  helplessness.  Mitro- 
fan  also  started  to  run  after  her,  and  now  in  the 
dark,  unfamiliar,  side  street,  where  there  were 
no  other  people  but  they,  he  and  the  girl,  running, 
he  was  seized  with  a  strange  feeling;  he  felt  that 
he  was  too  much  of  a  spy,  and  he  even  became 
frightened. 

^'I  must  end  this  matter  at  once,"  he  thought, 
running  quickly,  out  of  breath,  but,  for  some  rea- 
son, not  daring  to  run  at  full  speed. 

At  the  entrance  of  a  many  storied  house  the 
student  girl  stopped,  and  while  she  was  tugging 
at  the  knob  of  the  heavy  door  Mitrofan  Krilov 
overtook  her  and  looked  at  her  face  with  a  gener- 
ous smile  in  order  to  show  her  that  the  joke  was 
ended,  and  that  all  was  well.  But  breathing  with 
difficulty,  she  passed  into  the  half  opened  door, 
hurling  at  his  smiling  face: 

^'Scoundrel!" 

And  she  disappeared.  Through  the  glass  her 
silhouette  flashed — and  then  she  disappeared 
completely.  Still  smiling  generously,  Mitrofan 
touched  the  cold  knob  of  the  door,  made  an  at- 
tempt to  open  it,  but  in  the  hallway,  under  the 
staircase,  he  saw  the  porter's  galoons,  and  he 
walked  away  slowly.  He  stopped  a  few  steps 
away  and  for  about  two  minutes  stood  shrugging 
his  shoulders.  He  adjusted  his  spectacles  with 
dignity,  threw  his  head  back  and  thought: 


222  THE  SPY 

^'How  stupid.  She  did  not  allow  me  to  say 
a  word,  but  scolded  me  at  once.  The  nasty  girl 
could  not  understand  that  it  was  all  a  joke.  I 
was  doing  it  all  for  her  own  sake,  while  she — 
As  if  I  needed  her  with  her  papers.  Break  your 
neck  as  much  as  you  please.  I  suppose  she  is 
sitting  now  and  telling  all  sorts  of  students,  all 
sorts  of  long-haired  students,  how  a  spy  was  pur- 
suing her.  And  they  are  sighing.  The  idiots! 
I  am  a  university  graduate  myself,  and  am  no 
worse  than  you  are." 

He  felt  warm  after  his  brisk  walk,  and  he 
unbuttoned  his  coat,  but  he  recalled  that  he  might 
catch  a  cold,  so  he  buttoned  his  coat  again,  tug- 
ging with  aversion  at  the  loose,  dangling  but- 
ton. 

He  stood  in  the  same  spot  for  a  time,  cast  a 
helpless  glance  at  the  rows  of  lighted  and  dark 
windows  and  went  on  thinking: 

''And  the  shaggy  students  are  no  doubt  happy, 
and  they  believe  her.  Fools!  I  myself  was  a 
shaggy  student — my  hair  was  so  long !  I  would 
not  have  cut  my  hair  even  now  if  it  weren't  fall- 
ing out.  It  is  falling  out  rapidly.  I'll  soon  be 
bald.     And  I  can't  wear  a  wig  like — a  spy." 

He  lit  a  cigarette  and  felt  that  it  was  too  much 
for  him — the  smoke  was  so  bitter  and  unpleasant. 

"Shall  I  go  up  and  say  to  them:  'Ladies  and 
gentlemen,  it  was  all  a  joke,  just  a  joke'?  But 
they  will  not  believe  me.  They  may  even  give 
me  a  thrashing." 


THE  SPY  223 

Mitrofan  walked  away  about  twenty  steps  and 
paused.     It  was  growing  cold. 

He  felt  his  light  coat  and  the  newspaper  in  his 
side  pocket — and  he  was  seized  with  a  sense  of 
bitterness.  He  felt  so  offended  that  he  was  on 
the  point  of  crying.  He  could  have  gone  home, 
had  his  dinner,  drunk  his  tea  and  read  his  news- 
paper— and  his  soul  would  have  been  calm, 
cloudless;  the  copy  books  had  already  been  cor- 
rected, and  to-morrow,  Saturday,  there  would  be 
a  whist  party  at  the  inspector's  house.  And 
there,  in  her  little  room,  his  deaf  grandmother 
was  sitting  and  knitting  socks — the  dear,  kind, 
devoted  grandmother  had  already  finished  two 
pairs  of  socks  for  him.  And  the  little  oil  lamp 
must  be  burning  in  her  room — and  he  recalled 
that  he  had  been  scolding  her  for  using  too  much 
oil.  Where  was  he  now?  In  some  kind  of  a 
side  street.  In  front  of  some  house — in  which 
there  were  shaggy  students. 

Two  students  came  out  of  the  lighted  entrance 
of  the  house,  slamming  the  door  loudly,  and 
turned  in  the  direction  of  Mitrofan. 

He  came  to  himself  somewhere  on  the  boule- 
vard and  for  a  long  time  was  unable  to  recognise 
the  neighbourhood.  It  was  quiet  and  deserted. 
A  rain  was  falling.  The  students  were  not  there. 
He  smoked  two  cigarettes,  one  after  another,  and 
his  hands  were  trembling  when  he  lit  the  ciga- 
rettes. .  .  . 

"I  must  compose  myself  and  look  at  the  affair 


224  THE  SPY 

soberly,"  he  thought.  ''It  isn't  so  bad,  after  all. 
The  deuce  take  that  girl.  She  thinks  that  I  am 
a  spy;  well,  let  her  think  what  she  pleases.  But 
she  does  not  know  me.  And  the  students  didn't 
see  me  either.  I  am  no  fool — I  raised  the  collar 
of  my  coat!" 

He  laughed  for  joy,  and  even  opened  his  mouth 
— but  suddenly  he  stood  still  as  though  petrified 
by  a  terrible  thought. 

''My  God!  But  she  saw  me!  I  demon- 
strated my  face  to  her  for  a  whole  hour.  _  She 
may  meet  me  somewhere — " 

And  a  long  series  of  possibilities  occurred  to 
Mitrofan  Krilov;  he  was  an  intelligent  man, 
fond  of  science  and  art;  he  frequented  theatres, 
attended  various  meetings  and  lectures,  and  he 
might  meet  that  girl  at  any  of  those  places.  She 
never  goes  alone  to  such  places,  he  thought;  such 
girls  never  go  alone,  but  with  a  whole  crowd  of 
student  girls  and  audacious  students — and  he 
was  terrified  at  the  thought  of  what  might  happen 
when  she  pointed  her  finger  at  him  and  said: 
"Here's  a  spy!" 

"I  must  take  off  my  spectacles,  shave  off  my 
beard,"  thought  Mitrofan.  "Never  mind  the 
eyes — it  may  be  that  the  doctor  was  lying  about 
them.  But  will  my  face  be  changed  any  if  I 
remove  my  beard?     Is  this  a  beard?" 

He  touched  his  thin  little  beard  with  his  fin- 
gers and  felt  his  face. 


THE  SPY  225 

''Even  my  beard  does  not  grow  properly! "  He 
thought  with  sorrow  and  aversion. 

"But  it  is  all  nonsense.  Even  if  she  recog- 
nised me  it  wouldn't  matter.  Such  a  thing  must 
be  proven.  It  must  be  proven  calmly  and  logi- 
cally, even  as  a  theorem  must  be  proven." 

He  pictured  to  himself  a  meeting  of  the  shaggy 
students,  before  whom  he  was  defending  himself 
firmly  and  calmly. 

Mitrof an  Krilov  adjusted  his  spectacles  sternly, 
with  dignity,  and  smiled  contemptuously.  Then 
he  began  to  prove  to  them — but  he  convinced 
himself,  to  his  horror,  that  all  logic  and  theorem 
are  one  thing,  while  his  life  was  quite  another 
thing,  and  there  were  no  logic,  no  proofs  in  his 
life  to  show  that  Mitrofan  Krilov  was  not  a  spy. 
If  some  one,  even  that  girl,  accused  him  of  being 
a  spy,  would  he  find  anything  definite,  clear,  con- 
vincing in  his  life  by  which  he  could  offset  this 
base  accusation?  Now  it  seemed  to  him  she 
looked  at  him  naively,  with  fearless  eyes  and 
called  him  "spy" — and  from  that  straightfor- 
ward look,  and  from  that  cruel  word,  all  the  false 
phantoms  of  convictions  and  decency  melted 
away  as  from  fire.  Emptiness  everywhere.  Mi- 
trofan was  silent,  but  his  soul  was  filled  with  a 
cry  of  despair  and  horror.  What  did  all  this 
mean?  Where  had  it  all  disappeared?  What 
would  he  lean  up©n  in  order  to  save  himself  from 
falling  into  that  dark  and  terrible  abyss? 


226  THE  SPY 

''My  convictions/'  he  muttered.  "My  convic- 
tions. Everybody  knows  them,  my  convictions. 
For  instance — " 

He  searched  his  mind.  He  was  grasping  in  his 
memory  at  fragments  of  conversations,  he  was 
looking  for  something  clear,  strong,  convincing; 
he  found  nothing.  He  recalled  absurd  phrases 
such  as  this:  "Ivanov,  I  am  convinced  that  you 
have  copied  the  problem  from  Sirotkin."  But  is 
this  a  conviction?  Fragments  of  newspaper  arti- 
cles passed  before  him,  other  people's  speeches, 
quite  convincing — but  where  was  that  which  he 
had  said  himself,  which  he  himself  had  thought? 
He  spoke  as  everyone  else  spoke,  and  thought  as 
everybody  else  did,  and  it  was  just  as  impossible 
to  find  an  unmarked  grain  in  a  heap  of  grain. 
Some  people  are  religious,  some  are  not  religious, 
while  he — 

''Wait,"  he  said  to  himself.  "Is  there  a  God, 
or  is  there  not?  I  don't  know.  I  don't  know 
anything.  And  who  am  I — a  teacher?  Do  I 
exist,  I  wonder?" 

Mitrofan  Krilov's  hands  and  feet  grew  cold. 

"Nonsense!  Nonsense!"  he  consoled  him- 
self. "My  nerves  are  simply  upset.  What  are 
convictions  after  all?  Words.  A  man  reads 
words  in  a  book,  and  there  are  his  convictions. 
Acts,  these  are  things  that  count  chiefly.  A  fine 
spy  who — " 

But  there  were  no  acts  of  which  he  could  think. 
There  were  school  affairs,  family  affairs,  other 


THE  SPY  227 

affairs,  but  there  were  no  acts  to  speak  of.  Some 
one  was  persistently  demanding  of  him:  "Tell 
me,  what  have  you  done?"  and  he  was  searching 
his  mind,  desperately,  sorrowfully — he  was  pass- 
ing over  the  years  he  had  lived  as  over  the  key- 
board of  a  piano,  and  each  year  struck  the  same 
empty,  wooden  sound — "by a,"  without  meaning, 
without  significance. 

"Ivanov,  I  am  convinced  that  you  copied  the 
problem  from  Sirotkin."  No,  no,  that  is  not  the 
proper  thing. 

"Listen,  madam,  listen  to  me,"  he  muttered, 
lowering  his  head,  gesticulating  calmly  and  prop- 
erly. "How  absurd  it  is  to  think  that  I  am  a 
spy.  I — a  spy?  What  nonsense!  Please,  let 
me  convince  you.     Now,  you  see — " 

Emptiness.  Where  had  everything  disap- 
peared? He  knew  that  he  had  done  something, 
but  what?  All  his  kin  and  his  acquaintances 
regarded  him  as  a  sensible,  kind  and  just  man — 
and  they  must  have  reasons  for  their  opinion. 
Yes,  he  had  bought  goods  for  a  dress  for  grand- 
mother, and  his  wife  even  said  to  him:  "You  are 
too  kind,  Mitrofan!"  But,  then,  spies  may  also 
love  their  grandmothers,  and  they  may  also  buy 
goods  for  their  grandmothers — perhaps  even  the 
same  black  goods  with  little  dots.  What  else? 
But,  no,  no.     That  is  all  nonsense  1 

Unconsciously  Mitrofan  came  back  from  the 
boulevard  to  the  house  where  the  student  girl  dis- 
appeared, but  he  did  not  notice  it.     He  felt  that 


228  THE  SPY 

it  was  late,  that  he  was  tired,  and  that  he  was  on 
the  point  of  crying. 

Mitrofan  stopped  in  front  of  the  many  storied 
house  and  looked  at  it  with  a  sense  of  unpleasant 
perplexity. 

"What  a  repulsive  house!  Oh,  yes,  it  is  the 
same  house.'' 

He  walked  away  from  the  house  quickly  as 
though  from  a  bomb,  then  he  paused  and  re- 
flected. 

"The  best  thing  for  me  to  do  is  to  write  to  her 
— to  consider  the  matter  calmly  and  write  to  her. 
Of  course,  I  will  not  mention  my  name.  Sim- 
ply: that  'the  man  whom  you  mistook  for  a  spy' 
—  Point  by  point  I  will  analyse  it.  She'll  be 
a  fool  if  she  will  not  believe  me." 

After  a  time,  Mitrofan  touched  the  cold  knob 
several  times,  opened  the  heavy  door,  and  entered 
with  a  stern  look.  The  porter  appeared  in  the 
doorway  of  the  little  room  under  the  staircase, 
and  his  face  bespoke  his  willingness  to  be  of 
service. 

"Listen,  friend,  a  student  girl  passed  here  a 
little  while  ago — what  is  the  number  of  her 
room?" 

"What  do  you  want  to  know  it  for?" 

Mitrofan  Krilov  stared  at  him  abruptly 
through  his  spectacles,  in  silence,  and  the  porter 
understood:  he  shook  his  head  strangely  and  ex- 
tended his  hand  to  him. 

"Come  in  to  my  room,"  called  the  porter. 


THE  SPY  229 

"What  for?  I  simply — "  But  the  porter  had 
already  turned  into  his  little  room,  and  Mitro- 
fan,  gnashing  his  teeth,  followed  him  meekly. 

"He  believed  me — he  believed  me  at  once! 
The  scoundrel!"  he  thought. 

The  little  room  was  narrow;  there  was  but  one 
chair,  and  the  porter  occupied  it  calmly. 

"Are  you  single?"  asked  Mitrofan  good  na- 
turedly. 

But  the  porter  did  not  think  it  necessary  to 
reply.  Surveying  the  teacher  from  head  to  foot 
with  an  audacious  glance,  he  maintained  silence, 
and  after  a  time,  asked: 

"One  of  you  was  here  the  day  before  yester- 
day. A  light-haired  fellow,  with  moustaches. 
Do  you  know  him?" 

"Of  course  I  do.     He  is  light-haired — " 

"I  suppose  there  are  lots  of  you  people  roam- 
ing about  nowadays,"  the  porter  remarked  indif- 
ferently. 

"Look  here,"  Mitrofan  said,  growing  indig- 
nant, "I  haven't  come  here — I  simply  want  to — " 

But  the  porter  paid  no  attention  to  his  words, 
and  continued: 

"Do  you  get  a  large  salary?  The  light-haired 
fellow  said  he  was  getting  fifty.     Too  little." 

"Two  hundred,"  lied  Mitrofan  Krilov,  and  no- 
ticed an  expression  of  delight  on  the  porter's  face. 

"Really?  Two  hundred!  I  can  understand 
that.     Won't  you  have  a  cigarette?" 

Mitrofan  took  a  cigarette  from  the  porter's  fin- 


230  THE  SPY 

gers  with  thanks,  and  recalled  sadly  his  own  Jap- 
anese cigarette  case,  his  study,  his  dear  blue  copy 
books.  It  was  nauseating.  The  tobacco  was 
strong,  foul  odoured — tobacco  for  spies.  It  was 
nauseating. 

"Do  you  often  get  a  drubbing?'^ 

"Look  here—" 

"The  light-haired  fellow  told  me  that  he  had 
never  been  thrashed  yet.  I  suppose  he  lied. 
How  is  it  possible  that  you  people  shouldn't 
get  any  thrashing,"  the  porter  smiled  good  na- 
turedly. 

"I  must  find  out—" 

"One  must  have  ability  and  a  suitable  face.  I 
have  seen  a  spy  whose  face  was  crooked  and  one 
eye  was  missing.  What  is  a  man  like  that  good 
for?  His  face  was  crooked,  and  in  place  of  an 
eye  there  was  a  hole.     You,  for  instance — " 

"Look  here!"  Mitrofan  exclaimed  softly.  "I 
have  no  time.     I  have  other  things  to  attend  to." 

Unwillingly  dropping  this  interesting  theme, 
the  porter  questioned  Mitrofan  about  the  girl, 
what  she  looked  like,  and  said : 

"I  know  her.  She  comes  here  often.  No.  7, 
Ivanova.  Why  do  you  throw  the  cigarette  on 
the  floor?  There  is  a  stove.  All  I  have  to  do  is 
to  sweep  here  after  you." 

"Blockhead!"  Mitrofan  replied  quietly,  and 
walked  out  into  the  side  street,  looking  for  an 
izvozchik. 

"Home,  I  must  go  home  at  once!     My  God. 


THE  SPY  231 

Why  didn't  I  think  of  it  before.  I  was  so  ab- 
sent-minded." He  recalled  that  he  had  a  diary, 
in  which  he  had  written  long  ago,  when  he  was 
still  a  student,  during  his  first  term,  something 
liberal,  very  strong,  free  and  even  beautiful.  He 
recalled  clearly  that  evening,  and  his  room,  and 
the  tobacco  that  lay  scattered  on  the  table,  and 
the  feeling  of  pride,  enthusiasm,  and  delight  with 
which  he  wrote  down  those  energetic,  firm  lines. 
He  would  tear  out  those  pages  and  send  them  to 
her — and  that  would  settle  it.  She  would  see, 
she  w^ould  understand — she  was  a  sensible  and 
noble  girl.     How  fine!  and  how  hungry  he  was! 

In  the  hallway  Mitrofan  was  met  by  his 
alarmed  wife. 

"Where  were  you?  What  happened  to  you? 
Why  do  you  look  so  upset?" 

And  throwing  off  his  coat  quickly,  he  shouted: 

''With  you  I  might  be  still  more  upset!  The 
house  is  full  of  people  and  yet  there  is  nobody  to 
sew  a  button  on  my  coat.  The  devil  knows  what 
you  are  doing  here.  I  have  told  you  a  hundred 
times.  Sew  on  this  button.  It's  disgraceful, 
disgraceful!" 

And  he  walked  away  to  his  study. 

"And  how  about  dinner?" 

"Later.  Don't  bother  me!  Don't  follow 
me!" 

There  were  many  books  there,  many  copy 
books,  but  the  diary  was  not  there.  Sitting  on 
the  floor,  he  threw  out  of  the  lower  drawer  of  the 


232  THE  SPY 

closet  various  papers,  books,  copy-books,  sighing 
and  despairing,  angry  at  his  cold,  stiff  fingers — 
until  at  last!  There  was  the  blue,  slightly 
grease-stained  cover,  his  careful  hand-writing, 
dried  flowers,  the  stale,  sourish  odour  of  perfume 
— how  young  he  had  been  at  that  time ! 

Mitrofan  seated  himself  at  the  table  and  for 
a  long  time  turned  the  leaves  of  the  diary,  but  the 
desired  place  was  not  to  be  found.  And  he  re- 
called that  five  years  ago,  when  the  police  had 
searched  Anton's  house,  he  became  so  frightened 
that  he  tore  out  of  his  diary  all  the  pages  that 
might  compromise  him,  and  he  burned  them.  It 
was  useless  to  look  for  them — they  were  no  more 
— they  had  been  burned. 

With  lowered  head,  his  face  covered  with  his 
hands,  he  sat  for  a  long  time,  motionless,  before 
the  desolate  diary.  But  one  candle  was  burn- 
ing— it  was  unusually  dark  in  the  room,  and 
from  the  black,  formless  chairs  came  the  breath 
of  cold,  desolate  loneliness.  Far  away  in  those 
rooms  children  were  playing,  shouting,  laugh- 
ing; in  the  dining-room  tea  was  being  served; 
people  were  walking,  talking — while  here  all  was 
silent  as  in  a  graveyard.  If  an  artist  had  peeped 
into  the  room,  felt  this  cold,  gloomy  darkness  and 
noticed  the  heap  of  scattered  papers  and  books, 
the  dark  figure  of  the  man  with  his  covered  face, 
bent  over  the  table  in  helpless  grief — he  would 
have  painted  a  picture  and  would  have  called 
it  ''The  Suicide." 


THE  SPY  233 

^'But  I  can  recall  that  passage,"  thought  Mitro- 
fan.  ''I  can  recall  it.  Even  if  the  paper  was 
burned,  the  sentiments  remained  somewhere;  they 
existed.     I  must  recall  them." 

But  he  recalled  only  that  which  was  unimpor- 
tant— the  size  of  the  paper,  the  handwriting,  even 
the  commas  and  the  periods,  but  the  essential 
part,  the  dear,  beloved,  bright  part  that  could 
clear  him — that  was  dead  forever.  It  had  lived 
and  died,  even  as  human  beings  die,  as  every- 
thing dies.  If  he  knelt,  cried,  prayed  that  it 
come  to  life  again — if  he  threatened,  gnashed  his 
teeth — the  enormous  emptiness  would  have  re- 
mained silent,  for  it  will  never  give  up  that  which 
has  fallen  into  its  hands.  Did  ever  tears  or  sobs 
bring  a  dead  man  back  to  life?  There  is  no  for- 
giveness, no  mercy,  no  return — such  is  the  law 
of  cruel  death. 

It  was  dead.  It  had  been  killed.  Base  mur- 
derer! He  himself  had  burned  with  his  own 
hands  the  best  flowers  that  had  perhaps  once  in 
his  life  blossomed  in  his  fruitless,  beggarly  soul! 
Poor  perished  flowers!  Perhaps  they  were  not 
bright,  perhaps  they  had  no  power  or  beauty  of 
creative  thought,  but  they  were  the  best  that  his 
soul  had  brought  forth,  and  now  they  were  no 
more  and  they  will  never  blossom  again.  There 
is  no  forgiveness,  no  mercy,  no  return — such  is 
the  law  of  cruel  death. 

'What's  this?  Wait,"  he  muttered  to  himself. 
"I    have    convinced    myself   that    you,    Ivanov, 


234  THE  SPY 

copied  the  problem — nonsense !  I  must  speak  to 
my  wife.     Masha !     Masha  1  '^ 

Maria  entered.  Her  face  was  round,  kind  na- 
tured;  her  hair  was  thin  and  colourless.  In  her 
hands  she  held  some  work — a  child's  dress. 

"Well,  Mitrosha,  will  you  have  dinner 
now?" 

"No.     Wait.     I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

Maria  put  her  work  aside  with  alarm  and 
gazed  into  her  husband's  face.  Mitrofan  turned 
away  and  said: 

"Sit  down." 

Maria  sat  down,  adjusted  her  dress,  folded  her 
arms,  and  prepared  to  listen  to  him. 

"I  am  listening,"  she  said,  adjusting  her  dress 
once  more. 

"Do  you  know,  Masha — I  am  a  spy!"  he  said 
in  a  whisper,  his  voice  quivering. 

"What?" 

"A  spy,  do  you  understand?" 

Maria  wrung  her  hands  quietly  and  ex- 
claimed : 

"I  knew  it,  unfortunate  woman  that  I  am — my 
God!   my  God!" 

Jumping  over  to  his  wife,  Mitrofan  waved  his 
fist  at  her  very  face,  restrained  himself  with  diffi- 
culty from  striking  her,  and  shouted  so  loudly 
that  all  became  quiet  in  the  house. 

"Fool!  Blockhead!  You  knew  it.  My  God! 
How  could  you  know  it?  My  wife — my  friend, 
all  my  thoughts — my  money,  everything — " 


THE  SPY  235 

He  stationed  himself  at  the  stove  and  began 
to  cry. 

Mitrofan  turned  furiously  to  her  and  asked: 

''Am  I  a  spy?  Well!  Speak!  Am  I  a  spy, 
or  am  I  not?" 

''How  do  I  know?     Perhaps  you  are  a  spy." 

Avoiding  certain  details,  Mitrofan  confusedly 
told  his  wife  the  story  of  the  student  girl  and  of 
that  meeting. 

"Nonsense!"  exclaimed  Maria  carelessly.  "I 
thought  there  was  really  something  seriously 
wrong.  Is  it  worth  bothering  about  this?  Just 
shave  yourself,  take  off  your  spectacles,  and 
there's  the  end  of  it.  And  at  school,  during  the 
lesson,  you  may  even  wear  your  spectacles." 

"Do  you  think  so?  Is  this  what  you  call  a 
beard?" 

"Never  mind  it.  Say  what  you  like,  you  leave 
the  beard  alone.  I  have  always  said  that  your 
beard  was  all  right,  and  I  will  say  so  now,  too." 

Mitrofan  recalled  that  the  students  called  him 
"goat,"  and  he  was  very  glad  now.  If  his  beard 
were  not  a  good  one  they  would  never  have  nick- 
named him  "goat."  And  in  this  joy  he  kissed 
his  wife  and,  jestingly,  even  tickled  her  ear  with 
his  beard. 

At  about  twelve  o'clock  at  night,  when  all  grew 
quiet  in  the  house,  and  his  wife  had  gone  to  sleep, 
Mitrofan  brought  a  mirror,  warm  water,  and 
soap  into  his  study  and  sat  down  to  shave  him- 
self.    In  addition  to  the  lamp,  he  had  to  light 


236  THE  SPY 

two  candles,  and  he  felt  somewhat  ashamed  and 
restless  because  of  the  bright  light,  and  he  looked 
only  at  the  side  of  the  face  he  was  shaving. 

He  shaved  his  cheek;  then  he  thought  awhile, 
lathered  his  moustaches,  and  shaved  them  off. 
He  looked  at  his  face  again.  To-morrow  people 
would  laugh  at  that  face. 

Pressing  his  razor  resolutely,  Mitrofan  threw 
his  head  back  and  carefully  passed  the  dull  side 
of  the  knife  across  his  neck. 

"It  would  be  good  to  kill  myself,"  he  thought, 
''but  how  could  I?" 

''Coward!  Scoundrel!"  he  said  aloud,  indif- 
ferently. 

To-morrow  people  would  laugh  at  him — his 
comrades,  his  pupils.  And  his  wife  would  also 
laugh  at  him. 

He  longed  to  be  sunk  in  despair,  to  cry,  to 
strike  the  mirror,  to  do  something,  but  his  soul 
was  empty  and  dead,  and  he  was  sleepy. 

"Perhaps  that  is  due  to  the  fact  that  I  was  out 
long  in  the  fresh  air,"  he  thought,  yawning. 

He  removed  his  shaving  cup,  put  out  the  light 
of  the  lamp  and  candles,  and  scraping  with  his 
slippers  he  went  to  his  bedroom.  He  soon  fell 
asleep,  having  pushed  into  the  pillow  his  shaven 
face,  at  which  everybody  would  laugh  to-morrow: 
his  friends,  his  wife — and  he  himself. 

THE  END 


